by Tom Bradby
He stood up. ‘Julia, don’t allow suspicion to lead you to believe everyone is ranged against you, because it isn’t so.’ He walked to the door and stopped. ‘If you make your modus vivendi, or should I say operandi, self-reliance, then one day, you will discover that all you have is the lonely embrace of old age.’ He looked at her. ‘Will you promise to come and seek me out after you’ve seen Mrs Simpson?’
She nodded.
‘I mean promise?’
Julia frowned at him.
‘It’s very important.’
She shrugged.
And then he was gone, leaving Julia sitting in her father’s armchair staring into the middle distance. She realized she’d not asked him about Pascoe, but then she knew, without having to be told, that it was murder and not suicide.
Julia walked out on to the terrace. Her mother was still stooped over the flower-bed on the other side of the drive. Alan was cutting the grass with the old petrol-engine mower, leaving alternating stripes as he moved from one end of the lawn to the other. He was wearing a pair of faded red cotton trousers and the leather boots he always used for gardening, with a white checked shirt – too hot for today, really. Julia could see the hairs poking out of the top of it and, as she watched him, he raised his hand to her.
There was no sign of the tension she had sometimes seen over the past week.
As he came to the middle of the lawn, he let the engine on the mower die, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and came towards her.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fine.’
He nodded, turning half away from her, towards the common. ‘Garden’s in good shape.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice to have a good spell of weather at last.’
‘Yes, it’s hot, isn’t it?’
Alan pushed his hair off his forehead again and returned to the mower. He took hold of the lead and pulled hard, restarting the engine. It jumped forward, almost out of his hands, but he brought it under control and walked on behind it. When he got to the end of each row, he swirled it around, rather than slowing down.
Julia watched. He was near the garden shed now and he had already mowed a horizontal strip around it, allowing him to use that area to complete his turn. He finished the last strip and stopped. He took off the plastic back of the mower and emptied the grass cuttings in the compost heap beyond the shed. Then he pushed the mower round to the front, opened the door and shoved it in. The plank that Julia had nailed up the other day dropped down again.
Julia walked down the steps and across the lawn in the direction of Woodpecker Lane. As she reached the gate, her mother straightened again and smiled. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Fine. Just off for a walk. You’re not going to work?’
Caroline shook her head and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, the trowel pointing upwards towards the sky. ‘No, not today.’
Julia reached the stile at the top of the ridge, hot from the climb, and began to descend towards East Welham, moving quickly and shivering involuntarily as she passed the now unguarded flickering white tape to her right.
She turned left on to the main road and, as she did so, glimpsed the village hall beyond the shop. Its door was open and there were two police cars parked outside.
East Welham Primary was at the opposite end of the village and was itself a converted church hall, with an ugly extension approved by a planner who had been either blind or a passionate believer in the virtue of functional architecture. Julia entered through the side, via the playground, walking slowly across the tarmac yard. There were some plastic cars and bikes parked in the corner and a new set of swings between a slide and a giant noughts-and-crosses board. There had been nothing like this in her time. The door of the new extension slammed shut behind her and she walked down past the classrooms. At the end, she turned right and looked down the main corridor in the old building. All along both sides there were pegs at about waist height, full of coats and bags. At this end there were cubby-holes with the names of the children written on them.
There was a gale of laughter from one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor and Julia walked towards it, stopping at the first door on her right and looking in through the glass window. The children were painting, wearing aprons. They were concentrating hard, in front of their young, dark-haired teacher.
At the end of the corridor, Julia hesitated a moment before opening the door to Mrs Simpson’s outer office. Inside, the desk was temporarily vacant, its occupant away, though the computer was on and a sweater draped over the chair.
The door in front of her had ‘Head’ written on it, an old sign that needed repainting. It had perhaps been nailed to the door at the beginning of Mrs Simpson’s tenure, an era no one could recall except Mrs Simpson. Julia knocked and heard a soft ‘Come in.’
Mrs Simpson did not appear to have changed at all. Her long grey hair was curled into a bun at the back of her head, her kindly face carefully made up. Julia realized now that she must once have been pretty.
‘Julia!’
Julia smiled and they shook hands. ‘Hello, Mrs Simpson.’
‘I think you’re old enough to call me Veronica.’
Julia found her eyes drawn to the beautiful lawn outside, which ran down to the stream. There was a class out there now, sitting in a circle around the teacher.
‘Summer lessons.’
Mrs Simpson smiled. ‘Yes.’ She turned back to her. ‘You’re still in the army, I assume.’
Julia hesitated. ‘Yes.’
Mrs Simpson nodded and smiled again.
There was silence.
‘It’s so awful about that man …’
Julia looked at the concern on Mrs Simpson’s face for several seconds before she realized that this was a reference to Pascoe.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Mrs Simpson leant forward. ‘I’m sorry.’
Julia did not meet her eyes. ‘It’s all right. I’ve … seen worse.’
‘Yes … of course. Still …’ Mrs Simpson stopped. ‘What can I do for you?’ She motioned for Julia to sit.
Julia watched the children outside. ‘I was under the impression that you were expecting me.’
‘Well, the Professor said you might come.’ Mrs Simpson shifted her chair slightly so that she, too, was looking out of the window at the children on the grass. Julia wondered if she was recalling Alice’s face.
‘What did Professor Malcolm want?’ Julia asked.
‘He wanted me to recall Alice and … he had a theory he said he wanted to put to me.’
‘How did you recall Alice?’
Mrs Simpson shrugged. ‘As a sweet and endearing little girl, but you know that.’
‘And what was his theory?’
Mrs Simpson hesitated. ‘He said that he didn’t think Alice was Alan Ford’s child.’
Julia felt a tightness in her throat. The nervous uncertainty was in her belly and the small of her back. She recalled the dream in which her father had reached forward to place a … paternal hand on Alice’s head.
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said that it was very possible that that was correct.’
‘Why did you say that?’
‘Well, Alice was a pretty girl, but I found the behaviour of both her parents odd.’
‘In what way?’
Mrs Simpson sat forward. ‘Her mother, Sarah, was very … concerned for the little girl. It was not something I reached a conclusion about at the time, but after talking to the Professor … well, it was too much, I think. Too much concerned for her appearance. One day, when Alice fell and grazed her knee quite badly in the yard and sustained a small cut to her face,’ Mrs Simpson had raised her hand, ‘she was very upset. Not Alice, of course, she was brave. But the mother treated her daughter as if she were a porcelain doll. That’s not healthy for any child.’
Julia waited.
‘But with Sarah, no attempt was made
to conceal anything. That was just the way she was. I didn’t like it, but nor did it hide anything.’
Julia felt her stomach turn over again.
‘And Alan?’
Mrs Simpson was uncomfortable now. ‘It’s just that one sees so many parents here, how they are with their children, and he was – the professor asked me and I had to agree – Alan was different in some way. When he was affectionate, it seemed … How can I put this politely? Exaggerated and put on. As if he was doing it for whoever happened to be standing in front of him, to prove that he was a normal father.’
Julia looked at her. ‘To prove that he was a normal father?’
‘Yes.’
‘To prove that he had the feelings a father would normally have for a daughter?’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘The little girl was a battleground.’ There was a long silence as Julia thought this through. ‘Sarah was rubbing it in with her grooming … This girl is mine, she is nothing to do with you.’
‘That’s exactly what the Professor said.’
Julia stood up – she couldn’t sit any longer.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Simpson said. ‘Have I upset you?’
Julia paced to the other side of the room, creating some distance. Mrs Simpson was frowning, as if worried that she had done something wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MAC WAS IN such a hurry by the time he reached Wilke’s flat that he was reluctant to wait for the lift and ran up the stairs instead. The sudden exercise relieved some of the tension that had been building up within him.
The door had not been mended and Mac felt foolish as he knocked on what remained of it. There was no answer so he went in, only to discover that an area had been cleared around the mattress on the floor, suggesting Wilkes himself had returned.
Mac went back to the landing outside, tried the swarthy neighbour and was again directed to the nearby Rat and Parrot pub.
He took the stairs at speed, ran through the courtyard below and across the road to the pub on the corner, forcing himself to slow down and breathe in deeply as he reached the door. Inside, the pub was almost empty and he found Wilkes next to the cigarette machine, away from the bar, sitting with his legs crossed, smoking a roll-up. He seemed unnaturally thin, his face pinched and worn. ‘Who are you?’
‘Captain Macintosh. Mac.’
There was a rapid twitch in Wilkes’s cheek. ‘You people think you can do anything. Well, you’re not forcing me away.’
Mac looked over his shoulder, pulled up a stool and sat opposite him. ‘Please keep your voice down, Mr Wilkes, I’m not here to harass you.’
‘You think you can chuck some money around and make me disappear.’
‘Look.’ Mac placed his hands together. ‘I’m not with Rigby, but you should know that last night someone caught up with Robert Pascoe, murdered him, hung him from a tree in a feeble attempt to make it look like suicide and then set him alight to destroy the clues.’
Mac could see the fear in Wilkes’s eyes.
‘From the evidence I’ve seen, I would suggest that you are next.’
‘No I’m not.’
Mac leant forward. ‘Someone put a Browning into Claverton’s mouth and blew the back of his head off, then tried to make it look like suicide. Then he did the same to Danes. Now he’s killed Pascoe. I would say, Wilkes, that you know who that someone is and unless you start to do something about it very soon, you will be next.’
Wilkes was shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Whoever it is no longer trusts in your silence. He thinks you’re going to talk, and whether you do or not, you’re going to be terminated, just as the others have been.’
‘No. No.’ He picked up his Rizlas and shoved them into his jacket pocket.
‘Stay where you are, Wilkes.’
‘Get away from me.’
‘Calm down.’
Mac took his arm, but Wilkes shook it off and walked towards the door. Mac waited, looking harshly at the surly youth behind the bar, before slipping the Browning back into his coat and following Wilkes out into the street, walking purposefully after him.
Mac caught Wilkes just as he walked through the broken door to his flat.
He knew his own strength and had Wilkes’s feet off the ground inside, pushing him back against the wall. ‘Talk.’
‘I’ll call the police.’
Mac held Wilkes with one hand, took his Browning out with the other and held it against his forehead. ‘Believe it or not, I’m your last chance.’
‘You’re with Rigby.’ Wilkes looked as if he would shit himself, his mouth quivering as he bit the edge of his nicotine-stained moustache.
‘What happened to Havilland, Wilkes?’
Mac tightened his grip, until Wilkes was wheezing. ‘Havilland’s daughter happens to be a very good friend of mine.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
Mac relaxed, lowered him to the floor, still with his hands to the man’s collar. He could smell the Guinness and tobacco on his captive’s breath.
Wilkes collapsed and Mac let him go, watching as he bent double, his body convulsed with sobs. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me. I never suggested shooting them.’
‘Shooting them?’
‘The prisoners. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my idea and then Havilland just came along … shouting. It wasn’t my fault.’
There was a long silence. ‘He said it was an accident.’
‘What was an accident?’
‘The gun going off.’
‘Whose gun?’
There was no reply. Wilkes had curled himself into a tight ball on the ground, so that he looked like a snail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHEN JULIA GOT home, a box had been left for her inside the hall. She carried it up to her room.
The telephone records for her parents’ home were at the bottom and it took her a few moments to locate the day of the murders.
For the period before church, there were eight calls from her home to the Ford house. Plus the two she had seen earlier from the Ford home to here.
Julia stood up again, went to the drawer by her bed and took out the statements given to the police by her mother and father. Then, she went into the hall and climbed up to the attic, looking out of the Velux before retreating to her father’s desk and sitting in the captain’s chair.
Julia sat still and thought.
After a time, she heard her mother come upstairs and knock on the door of her room. Then Caroline called up to the attic. ‘Julia?’ She did not respond. ‘Julia? Are you up there? I was wondering what you wanted for supper tonight.’
When she didn’t answer, Caroline went downstairs again.
Julia looked at the statement in her hand and the passages she had underlined.
As I walked down Woodpecker Lane, I glanced in through the window of Alan Ford’s house. I saw him crossing from one side of the kitchen to the other with a cup of coffee in his hand.
I arrived home and saw my husband working in the garden. I went upstairs to change out of my church clothes. When I came down to the kitchen, he was digging the flower-bed by the hedge.
With the sheet of paper clutched between thumb and forefinger, Julia jumped down from the attic, ran along the corridor and came down the stairs, only stopping when she reached the entrance to Alan Ford’s drive. She checked the statement in her hand again and took in the evidence of her eyes, once more walking to the end of Woodpecker Lane, before turning as she had done before and coming back, glancing over towards Alan’s kitchen window.
She repeated the exercise, this time keeping to the left side of Woodpecker Lane and stopping opposite Alan’s drive. It was an incline you would hardly notice unless you were looking out for it, but it was a fact that all the houses on Woodpecker Lane were built above the level of the road.
From here, through the kitchen window, the angle was such that you could only see the cupboards.
Julia retreated and r
eturned to the attic. She picked up the phone records and walked downstairs. In the kitchen, Aristotle had finished supper and was lying against the Aga, beside her mother’s feet. Caroline was sitting at the table.
Julia threw the witness statement and the phone records down in front of her.
Caroline Havilland looked up and frowned.
‘Your witness statement on the day of the murder. You were lying.’
Her mother's frown turned to a look of defiance.
‘Alan Ford’s house is higher than the road. You could not have seen him with a cup of coffee unless he had been carrying it on his head. I’ve paced it out. I’m sure that’s true.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘On the morning of the murders, Alan Ford or his wife called here twice between 9.03 and 10.14. There were eight calls the other way. Dad and Sarah, or you and Alan?’
Julia waited.
‘Were you having an affair with Alan Ford before—’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘Well, it happened soon enough after.’
‘What happened?’ Caroline’s eyes flashed. ‘You think Alan and I …’
Julia was stunned.
‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘No … Julia, your mind has become so polluted. I said nothing good could come of this.’
‘And now we know why.’
Caroline Havilland shook her head. ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’
‘Don’t patronize me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Don’t shout at me.’
‘Don’t shout? Don’t shout? Don’t you bloody tell me what to do, don’t tell me a single thing ever again. Not ever. Not ever. You have lied. Everyone has lied and I was a child and I believed – look what I have believed.’
Julia smacked the vase in the middle of the table, sending it careering into the Aga. The bits of china and flowers scattered in every direction. Some of the water inside hit the wall, the rest dripped over the edge of the Aga.
She turned to face her mother. ‘Now you stop lying to me.’
