by Jennie Finch
Sighing in frustration, Lauren put the whole mess of her working life behind her and slipped behind the wheel of her specially adapted car. A modified version of the new Nova, it was her pride and joy and she loved the sense of independence it gave her. As a child she had watched her school friends begin to explore the world around them. Starting with bicycles, the boys moved on to mopeds or motorbikes before they clambered into second-hand cars, cheap and battered cast-offs from relatives or friends that helped to carry them away, out of her life. Lauren had tried and tried but was unable to ride a bicycle and could barely see out of the windows of most cars. She had watched, sick with envy, as her friends grew up and moved on, leaving her stranded at home.
The car was a major triumph, a victory won by determination, hard work and the stalwart support of her brother, Jonny. For years he had driven her around, out to parties and the houses of her friends, taking her shopping and on occasional trips to Bath or Bristol. Lauren had managed with the local bus whilst they lived in town but when her mother decided they were moving out to Nether Stowey, she rebelled.
‘I ’ent going all that way out there,’ she had said, so angry she stamped her foot in fury. ‘Might be alright for you, maybe, but what about me? How’m I supposed to get into work then? ’Ent more’n one bus a day and that at the wrong time. Often times I got to work a bit late and then I’m stuck. So I reckon either I gets my own car or I’m lookin’ for some place of my own.’
She had slammed out of the door and into her room, flinging herself on the bed where she was overwhelmed by tears of frustration. There was a knock at the door announcing the return of her brother and she wiped her face hastily, sitting up to face him.
‘Suppose you heard then?’ she’d said as he peered round the frame. Lauren loved Jonny dearly but she had a bit of a temper and had been known to throw things when upset.
‘Reckon they heard you back in the office,’ he’d said, grinning as he slipped in and settled in the armchair by the bed.
‘I mean it,’ said Lauren, setting her jaw stubbornly.
‘I know you do,’ her brother had said softly. ‘And I agree with you. You need your own car and you need more independence. How long you been working now – about four years?’
Lauren nodded.
‘Suppose you got a bit saved up then?’ he’d suggested. ‘After all, would need a deposit and such for your own place if you stayed round here.’
Lauren had nodded again, eyes narrowing as she wondered where this was going.
‘Well then, we get in touch with the Mobility people and see about a car for you. Soon as we got that, I’ll teach you to drive,’ he said.
The car meant freedom for Lauren. A little bit of independence, a few choices and the chance to work, just like everyone else. She mused on her life as she travelled along the road unwinding from Highpoint towards Nether Stowey. She certainly had more choices than most people had thought possible when she was at school. This was partly down to her mother who had resisted all attempts to move her daughter to a ‘special school’, arguing the mainstream environment, though rough on occasions, would best equip her for later life.
There had been moments when Lauren had rather wished her mother had agreed to the easier and more sheltered atmosphere of the special school, times when the big boys (and some of the big girls) crowded round her, bouncing and jostling with scant regard for her small frame. There were occasional outbreaks of bullying when she found her school bag or books placed on top shelves or thrown back and forth above her head and once, just once, a particularly unpleasant boy had picked her up and held her off the ground until his mocking laughter attracted a crowd. For some reason this was considered going too far and a score of hands seized her, placed her safely on the ground and hustled the offender off behind the bike shed.
Lauren did not know exactly what transpired after that but the culprit never so much as looked at her again. In fact, her refusal to give his name to the teachers who rushed to the scene too late to be of any real help, earned her the respect of most of her peers and from that day onwards she was never lonely at school. A number of the friends she made after that final outbreak of bullying were still close and those experiences, along with twice weekly karate classes, helped to give her the confidence she needed to do her job at the probation office.
All in all, she had a pretty decent life, especially now Dave Brown – Detective Dave Brown, she thought smugly – was her boyfriend. Resisting the urge to laugh, she nevertheless could not resist a happy grin spreading over her face. Dave was marvellous – thoughtful, clever, funny and, when he wasn’t at work, attentive. He treated her as if she were special but not as if she were fragile. Dave knew how physically tough Lauren could be and had no qualms about suggesting outings into the hills or increasingly long rides on the modified tandem he had designed when he learned she had never been able to ride a standard bicycle. No, Dave was one of the best things that had ever happened to her. As she bowled along towards Nether Stowey, the Quantock Hills rising up before her, she wondered if she would get a chance to see him any time soon.
Detective Dave Brown returned from the canteen with a tray of tea and coffee and nearly dropped the lot when he saw his desk. Slap in the middle was a shop mannequin’s head, obscured by a black stocking. What was so startling, however, was the long, brassy blonde wig flowing down from the head and trailing over the desk. Putting the tray down on a spare desk, he was aware of several pairs of eyes watching him and there was a smattering of laughter, hastily stilled. Dave took a deep breath, strode over to the desk and picked up the head.
‘Well,’ he said waving it at the other men. ‘Who arrested this little beauty?’
The laughter was unrestrained this time.
Dave lifted the wig and pretended to examine it before shaking his head. ‘Don’t think it’s him though,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ called someone from the back of the room.
Dave waved the wig at the voice. ‘Our victim was most insistent,’ he said. ‘Our man is a natural blond.’
‘Told you,’ said Sergeant Lynas as he stepped out of the Inspector’s office, a grin on his face. ‘No fooling this lad.’ He nodded approvingly in Dave’s direction before stepping up to the whiteboard at the front of the room.
‘Right, settle down. I’ve got some results back from forensics.’
Dave sank into his chair, his hands toying idly with the hair of the wig. He felt inordinately pleased with himself. No-one had teased him at Highpoint. They had played tricks and made jokes at his expense but he had never had the sense he was invited to join in. He recalled his mentor from Hendon Training College, a man who had given Dave the skills and knowledge he relied on every day. ‘Remember,’ he had said just before Dave left for Somerset. ‘No-one teases someone they don’t like. It’s too much trouble.’
Dave turned his attention back to the briefing. Sergeant Lynas was recapping the collection of evidence from the two crime scenes. Most of it had come from the most recent incident, in West Monkton. Here the officers had gathered a rich haul footprints, a number of them of bare feet, as well as signs of someone watching the house from amongst the surrounding trees. The glass of the conservatory had yielded some smudged handprints but nothing clear enough to be of any use for identification. The technicians had taken swabs from the surface and found sweat and what seemed to be spit on the glass.
‘Now, that’s the good news,’ said Lynas as he noted the evidence on the board. ‘The bad news is he’s not a secretor.’
There was a soft groan of disappointment from the assembled detectives. The majority of men – around 80 per cent – secreted a type of marker that could be found in most bodily fluids. This indicated their blood group and associated enzymes – the PGM. As the two markers were inherited independently, there were many different combinations and this information could narrow the field of suspects considerably, especially with the rarer blood types. Whilst the information from a secretor could
n’t identify an individual, it was very valuable in eliminating a suspect.
Sergeant Lynas held up his hand for silence. ‘Now then, at least we can rule out anyone who is a secretor,’ he said. ‘And the redoubtable Miss Taylor was right.’ He held up a small plastic envelope and waved it in Dave’s direction. ‘These hairs were found on the glass of her conservatory. And they come from a natural blond. When we find him, we’ve got something to match him against. Now all we have to do is find him. And hopefully before he decides to do this again.’
Chapter Five
Ada was weeding her vegetable garden in the warm midday sunshine when she was interrupted by the unusual sound of the post van stopping on the road outside. Alerted by the frantic barking of the dogs, she slipped around the side of the house and peered at the postman suspiciously. In her experience nothing good ever came through the letterbox, especially if it was in a brown envelope. Since her son Kevin had left home to travel with the Fair there had been a lack of any sort of mail. Ada took heart from this, seeing the absence of court summons and official correspondence as a sign that he was behaving himself and keeping to the conditions of his probation. Alex Hastings was still nominally his probation officer and she had arranged for him to report into a number of offices around the country. She was, Ada reflected, a thoroughly decent person but she took her job seriously and if Kevin failed to stick to the agreement, she knew Alex would haul him back to Highpoint and breach him.
The postman was a new one, a young man she’d not seen before. Despite this he still approached the front door with some caution and stepped to one side before reaching for the letterbox. Ada suppressed a grin at this. She had a reputation for slamming the fingers of unwary delivery men in the letterbox and had, on a couple of occasions, menaced unwanted visitors with an old carving knife she kept in the drawer of an ancient hall stand.
‘I’ll take that,’ she said popping her head around the wall.
The young man jumped and stared at her, eyes wide with fear.
‘Oh, don’t be soft. Give ‘um here.’ Ada put out her hand for the envelope – a white one, she noted with surprise – and waited as the postman sidled towards her, the letter held arm’s length. She had an almost overwhelming urge to shout ‘Boo!’ at him, just see how he would react but at that moment a battered green van drew up and Tom Monarch stepped out and waved at her. The young postman took advantage of her momentary distraction and, thrusting the envelope into her outstretched hand, beat a hasty retreat down the path and into the safety of his own vehicle.
Tom glanced at Ada quizzically. ‘What’s that all about then?’ he asked as the postman roared off down the narrow road.
Ada shrugged, her attention focussed on the letter. Her name and address were printed in block capitals and the postmark was from Nottingham. She turned the envelope over in her hands, puzzled. As far as she could remember she knew no-one from Nottingham and although the handwriting was vaguely familiar she couldn’t place it. Still, it was certainly addressed to her.
‘Reckon you could just open it,’ Tom suggested.
She scowled at him without speaking, still turning the letter over and over.
Tom sighed. ‘Why is it you has to fight with everyone?’ he asked wearily. ‘Just open it will you, then we can get on with this here fence.’
He turned and walked back to his van, opening the back doors wide and hauling out a home-made ramp.
Ada slipped into the house through the back door and took a seat at the kitchen table, setting the letter on the worn wooden surface in front of her. Letters were a rare commodity in her world and demanded the correct ritual. They were not to be ripped open and gobbled down, to be dropped into a pocket and forgotten in an instant. Letters were for sipping and savouring – except those in brown envelopes of course. They were for stuffing behind the clock and ignoring.
After another minute staring at the letter, Ada took a small knife from the dresser behind her and slit the top open carefully. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in half. Setting the envelope to one side, Ada unfolded the letter and read it slowly. When she reached the end she took a deep breath and read it again before placing it gently on the table. Her hands were shaking and there were tears in her eyes as she stood and reached for the kettle.
‘Tom,’ she called through the open door. ‘Come in and have some tea afore you get started.’
There was a shout in reply and she heard the doors to the van slam shut, followed by Tom’s footsteps up the path. A few moments later he peered around the door, the dogs at his heels.
‘You alright, Ada?’ he asked as he stepped into the kitchen, concern on his face.
Ada waved him towards a chair by the table and lifted the teapot, placing it between them. Tom’s eyes slid over the letter but he was too well-mannered to ask until she nodded.
‘Have a look,’ she said, pouring the tea into two mugs and adding milk to both.
Tom picked up the letter and read it silently, then glanced at Ada over the top of the single sheet of paper.
‘Well, is nice to get some news,’ he said. ‘Seems he’s going on alright.’
Ada reached out and plucked the letter from his hands.
‘Don’t get it, do you,’ she said gazing at it once more. ‘Kevin can’t read – couldn’t read, anyroad. Times we sat here and I tried to teach him his letters – could just manage to write his name by the time he left school. Could scarcely struggle through a book for infants. Soon as he learned a word it was gone again. But here, look.’ She smoothed the paper out and beamed proudly. ‘Is all in block printing but is Kev’s writing. He done this his self. My boy, he sent me a letter!’
Tom took a sip of his tea and nodded his understanding.
‘Bit of a special moment then,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy popping out for a drink, to celebrate?’
Ada glared at him and folded Kevin’s letter again, placing it in the envelope.
‘You’ll not get round me so easy,’ she said. ‘You and your opportunism!’
‘Big words,’ said Tom with a grin. ‘Sounds like you swallowed a dictionary sometimes, hearing you talk. Well, can’t blame us fer asking. I’ll unload this stuff I’ve got for that fence and I was hopin’ to maybe have a quick dig around, see what we got under all them brambles afore I settle on the sort of posts we need. That okay with you?’
‘Help yerself,’ said Ada, but her eyes followed him as he rose from the table and strode back to the van. Strong he was, she reflected. Always had been a decent sort, if truth be told. Carried himself well too, despite him being – she reckoned up in her head – must be early sixties by now. Couple of years older than her. She shook her head, annoyed at the turn her thoughts were taking. Better be up and see what he was doing, she decided. He was charming, helpful, attentive – reckon he needed watching. Never knew what he was after. She tucked Kevin’s letter under the clock on the mantelpiece and hurried out into the sunshine.
Alex was exhausted when she dragged herself into work on the day after collecting her mother. Never a confident driver, she had found the distance hard. Compounded by the unexpected detour to Tonbridge and the stress of having her mother in the car, she was a wreck by the time she reached home late on Monday night. Sue had been waiting up for them and offered tea, sandwiches and a glass of wine. Alex declined the latter and, after a couple of bites, rather wished she had passed on the sandwich too. Whilst Sue was out in the back kitchen looking for biscuits, Alex’s mother leaned over and whispered.
‘What’s in these – do you know?’
Alex peeled the bread back and squinted at the filling but was unable to identify the bright pink substance inside. Poking at it cautiously, she dislodged several large chunks of onion and, with a bit more digging, what was probably sweet corn.
‘Ah, perhaps some sort of savoury?’ she hazarded.
Her mother sighed and took another bite.
‘Well, it was a nice thought,’ she said. ‘Eat up, dear
. I raised you to have better manners than that.’
Alex opened her mouth to protest but at that moment Sue bustled back through the door clutching a packet of chocolate digestives and the tea pot.
‘Everything all right?’ she said brightly.
Alex managed a sickly smile and took another, decidedly reluctant, bite. ‘I’m not very hungry actually,’ she said, trying to swallow without chewing. ‘It was a long drive and I started out before dawn.’ She set her sandwich aside and tried not to look too longingly at the biscuits.
‘This really is most kind of you,’ said Alex’s mother. ‘It’s quite an unusual filling. You must have made it yourself?’
Alex had always envied her mother’s gift for somehow saying just the right thing. Such a polite way of asking, ‘What the hell is this?’ Instead there was a hint of praise for going to the trouble of providing something home-made whilst satisfying their mutual curiosity.
Sue dropped into a chair on the opposite side of the table and beamed at them both.
‘I was going to try it with tuna,’ she said taking one of the digestives and nibbling at it. ‘Tuna Savoury – they make it up at the Royal Arms in Woolavington. Then I thought, some people don’t like fish or can’t eat it so I decided I’d try making it with corned beef instead. Well, it was such a busy day I didn’t get out to the shops at lunchtime but it was okay because I found a tin of Spam in the back of the cupboard.’
