by Lis Howell
‘What a relief! Though it’s a bit weird. That was Stevie Nesbit. He was on his way home with two friends from Lancaster when they found Jake. They’re bringing him back.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Sitting in a bus shelter. On his own.’
29
Whit Sunday afternoon and evening
Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin . . .
From the Public Baptism of Infants
In the living room of his sister Joanne’s house in Carlisle, Matthew Bell was yelling at his parents.
‘So what’s going on, Mam? I was staying over at Russell’s and we got up late. Then there were things I had to do. But you started sending me weird messages, and when I called Dad he said you’d buggered off over here.’
‘Calm down, Matt,’ Frank said, aware that his authority was wearing very thin, but scared that his son-in-law might get back from the rugby club before they’d got this all sorted out. His daughter was sitting white-faced on the sofa.
‘Calm down? You can fucking talk, Dad!’
‘Matthew! Watch your language.’ For the first time since her son had arrived in a fury, Monica sounded like herself again. ‘It’s quite simple. I left you a message saying that Dad and I had some things to discuss, and that in the meantime, I was at our Joanne’s. I said you were welcome to come over, but not to behave like this! I didn’t want to say more than that on the phone.’
‘Well, it sounded weird to me. So what’s going on?’
Wearily, Monica told him. Yvonne Wait was dead, and the police were involved. His father had been at the scene and had no alibi. For once, Frank had seemed to realize the seriousness of things, and she was gratified now that he had come straight over in the car to find her. He’d said, ‘I swear to you, Monica, all I did was open the church doors and leave the ladder.’
‘Where did you leave it?’
‘I laid it down in the aisle.’
‘You didn’t prop it up against the pillars?’
‘No! I knew Suzy Spencer had a few blokes coming to help her, so I reckoned they could prop up the ladder when they needed to. I was in a bit of a hurry to get away.’
‘So what about all this showing off, saying you’d deal with Yvonne?’
Frank looked a bit shifty. ‘I was planning to go and see her last night. I was working it out all day while I was in Hexham.’
‘So why was Jeff Simpson congratulating you?’
‘He jumped to conclusions, that’s all.’
Matthew Bell had listened to all this, barely able to control his anger. He’d had enough on his mind, after the events of Saturday night, without having to put up with his parents throwing wobblers all over the place. Then, slowly, it struck him that his father might really be in trouble. His face went white and blank, like his sister’s.
‘Shit,’ he said finally. ‘What are you going to do, Dad? Go to the police?’ He had his own reasons for dreading that particular option. Shit and shit again, he thought. Everything happened at once.
‘No!’ His mother sounded sharper. Better. Matthew felt relief. If Mum was back in control, things might be OK. She said, ‘Your father would be mad to go the police. They’ll come to him in time. The best thing for us all to do is sort out a story and stick to it.’
‘It’s the truth, love. I swear it.’
‘It may be the truth.’ Monica looked at Frank with disgust. ‘I don’t know any more about your truths. But whether it is or not, it needs to be consistent.’
What Frank said sounded perfectly plausible — but she’d always suspected that he’d been up to something with that cow when she was in hospital all those years ago. He’d had a smooth answer then as well. This was the same — only worse. She just couldn’t be sure. Would the police think Frank was capable of killing? He was certainly capable of adultery. She glanced at Joanne, who was huddled and grey, inside a shapeless sweatshirt, head cocked to listen for her husband’s key in the lock. It had been a mistake to come here. Her daughter wasn’t ready yet to be a matriarch.
‘We’d better go home and leave you in peace, Joanne,’ Monica said. She felt she could cope again now. ‘Thanks for putting up with this. You’ve gone through enough today for your father.’ She spat the word out, and Frank squirmed. ‘We’ll talk you through what you need to say, Frank, before the police get to you. And in the meantime, we’ll all stick together on this one. And that means you too, Matthew. You’ll have to grow up. The last thing we need now is you drawing attention to this family by driving around like a madman.’
Matthew turned silently away from his parents and stared out of the window at Joanne’s neat square of green lawn. His mother could be sharp with everyone else but she had never spoken to him, her favourite child, like this before. Fuck, he thought. Why had this happened today of all days?
Still, Jake Spencer knew better than to talk, though who would have thought that Jake would go all scaredy on him and demand to get out of the car? Good thing he’d done the important job before all these bonkers calls from Mum. So now his poor old dad was the one who was running scared. It was almost funny.
‘All right, Mam,’ he said, not arguing. Monica was surprised for a moment by his chirpy agreement. Matthew was too like his father. They had spoilt him, she admitted to herself. She’d had a rough pregnancy with Matthew, and because he was her baby and only son she’d let him get away with too much. When all this was over, she would make sure he knuckled down to something. Otherwise he would grow up like Jeff Simpson, cushioned by a family business he could waste. It was time for the Bells to pull themselves together.
Half an hour later when Joanne’s husband came rolling back he found his in-laws sitting calmly drinking tea in his living room.
‘Mam had lost some invoices in her accounts package on the computer,’ Joanne explained blandly. ‘But we’ve managed to sort everything out now with my software. Would you like a cuppa?’
‘We’ll be leaving shortly,’ said Monica.
Good, thought Joanne’s husband. He wasn’t going to ask too many questions about his in-laws’ business dealings. He hadn’t said a word when his mother-in-law had turned up white-faced at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to know. He just wanted his house back and for them all to go.
Matthew silently agreed. He wanted to get home. With any luck, Jake Spencer would have caught the Sunday bus that ran between Carlisle and Tarnfield, and gone straight to Tarn Acres where he would keep schtum, especially to his nosy mum. She thought she was really trendy, that Suzy Spencer, ’cos she worked in telly. But she didn’t know anything really. Matthew smiled to himself.
I’ll catch Jake somewhere, he thought, and see to it that he keeps his mouth shut. Whatever it takes.
* * *
That morning, Jeff Simpson had been furious with his wife. The short period of domestic glasnost caused by Yvonne’s death had been overtaken by his anger at finding Jane on the phone to her downmarket Strickland relatives.
Jeff usually tried to forget his wife’s origins, and he was pretty sure she did too. So he couldn’t understand why she sidled into the breakfast room, where he was chewing rubbery scrambled eggs, and said in her most wheedling little girl voice: ‘Jeffrey, I’m sorry, darling, but I’m going to have to take Vera to Carlisle in the Volvo. Tom’s been hurt in a road accident.’
‘So what’s this got to do with us? You, rather.’
‘Vera doesn’t drive and she doesn’t want to get a taxi. As she said, I am family.’ Jane looked edgy, and rubbed her hands up and down her black wool-mix trousers. Jeff noticed they were pilled and bobbly at the side. The fact that his wife was wearing worn clothes upset him. He felt even more annoyed with her.
‘Family? He’s not my family! Good God, woman, he’s only your cousin. And let’s face it, he’s not the sort of person we’d invite for lunch. His daughter’s a tart and his wife looks like a sack of potatoes. I bloody well hope this isn’t
going to be the start of some sort of reunion!’
‘No, darling, of course not. But when it comes down to it, Vera says she needs me.’
‘Oh, bugger off then and go. But don’t be out all day. I hope you haven’t forgotten that the Ridleys are popping in for a cup of tea this afternoon. You can bring a cake back on your way home from Carlisle. Now that bitch Wait is dead, we want to make sure she said nothing to Malcolm Ridley before she copped it. You’d better not be late.’
‘Of course I won’t be, sweetheart.’ Jane had hurried away.
Jeff had turned back to the Sunday Telegraph, distinctly put out, not helped by his hangover. An hour later he stomped off to the Plough where, in his view, Frank Bell had behaved like a bloody maniac. What had been the harm in suggesting that Frank might have been responsible for seeing Yvonne off? Whoever killed her had done everyone else a service. They all wanted her dead. Sulkily, Jeff then trudged home and opened a bottle of red wine, and when Jane still didn’t appear, he cut himself a slice of Stilton and took a handful of Carr’s water biscuits. At least these were made in Carlisle, not like that bloody ‘own brand’ rubbish that Jane had bought on one of her economy drives. And where was Russell? He’d been in bed when his father had left for the pub, and now there was no sign of him. Selfish little sod.
Jeff hated having to do things for himself in the kitchen because the room was dark and old-fashioned, not the sort of set-up he wanted for his wife. By keeping away from it as much as possible, he could ignore it — except of course for the increasing number of meals which Jane served up at the kitchen table. He usually sat with his back to the ancient Aga and shabby units, but this time he sat in her chair so that he could reach the chocolate biscuits without getting up. It was a frigging pain, he thought, Strickland getting himself injured. He hoped Jane wasn’t going to get involved in regular trips to Carlisle — there was the petrol to think about for a start, and the unfortunate contact with Vera, who was common as muck.
Jeff pushed the remainder of the Sunday Telegraph to one side and groped for his favourite chocolate digestives. As he did, his eye caught something lilac on the dresser. It was a screwed-up letter and matching envelope, and at once he knew the writing. That bitch Yvonne must have written to him, and Jane must have opened it!
But why didn’t she say? She certainly hadn’t been furious with him when she left to go sick visiting — if anything it was the other way around. He levered himself up and grabbed the flimsy paper in his hand.
It was Yvonne’s writing all right, but with a sudden shiver of shock he saw that it was addressed to his son. Surely Russ wouldn’t be dipping his wick in there? Jeff held the letter up to the light that came in from the gloomy windows, overgrown with ivy. He had a momentary qualm about reading Russ’s mail but he needed to know about this.
He could tell from the first lines that it wasn’t a love letter. He read it through twice, and then sat down heavily and let the implications sink in. The bitch, the absolute bitch, he thought. But he knew intuitively that what she was saying was right.
He crumpled the letter up, then smoothed it out again, and ripped it into pieces, dumping it in the bin with the remains of last night’s celebratory dinner. Thank God Yvonne was dead, but not before she’d caused even more trouble. A quick smashed skull had been too good for her.
And where was Jane in all this? Had she read the letter? Probably not. If she had, she would have destroyed it. So it was most likely Russ who opened it, read it, screwed it up and dropped it in disgust.
Jeff Simpson was not a sensitive man. It never occurred to him to wonder about his son’s state of mind after this bolt from the blue. All he wanted to do was confront his wife. He regretted ripping the letter up now. It would be a lot easier to demand an explanation if he showed Jane the poisonous words. He groped in the bin and pulled out some of the bigger pieces of lilac paper, but they could hardly be stuck together again. As he was doing so, he heard her key in the lock and her squeaky voice calling to him.
‘Jeff? I’m back, darling. I’m just unloading the car. I’m sorry it took so long. Vera wanted to stay and Sharon wanted a lift to her boyfriend’s afterwards and the time just dragged on. But I did manage to stop at Tesco’s and get some groceries and gateau . . . Jeff, what’s the matter?’
As she stepped down from the narrow hall into the dark kitchen, she saw her husband was advancing on her with a bin liner full of stinking rubbish in his hands. His eyes were bulging.
‘Did you see a letter to Russ? From Yvonne Wait? On purple paper?’
‘What? Yes, I did see a letter for Russell. But I didn’t know it was from Yvonne.’
‘Did you have any idea what it said?’
‘No, of course not. She must have sent it before she died. I can’t imagine why Yvonne would write to Russ. Did she want him to join All Saints Bible group?’
‘Don’t be so frigging ridiculous!’
Jane flinched. They stood, silently staring at each other. Jane could be very po-faced and it was just possible she was bluffing, Jeff thought. It was just possible that she’d seen the letter, read it and then screwed it up before Russell received it. If so, then she would have every reason for wanting Yvonne dead. Her motives would have been as strong as his own!
‘So you don’t know what she wrote?’
‘Of course I don’t, Jeff. If I did I’d tell you. Other than something about the church, I can’t imagine what she’d want to ask Russell.’
‘She didn’t want to ask him anything. She wanted to tell him something.’
‘What? And why are you so worked up about it?’
‘Because she knew far too much about the past, Jane, about your past. She quotes medical records that she could get her hands on. Does that ring any bells with you?’
‘No, no, why should it?’ Jane was growing paler now, as if a horrible thought was slowly crawling across her face.
‘Christ! You’re as stupid as your son. God knows where he is now, with this piece of information.’
‘What information, Jeff?’
‘That he’s yours. But not mine. Don’t look so bloody horrified. The Wait woman might have been a cow, but she was smart and she knew what she was talking about, unlike you. You’ve been found out.’
Jeff was advancing on her now, brandishing bits of soiled letter, the bin liner full of garbage leaking its damp, smelly contents on to the once bright red check tablecloth.
‘Is Russell’s father who she says he is, Jane?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Who are you talking about?’
‘You know damn well who I’m talking about. Say it.’
‘It’s rubbish, Jeff. It’s not true. It’s not—’
The front doorbell jangled across them. ‘Hello!’ boomed a cheery masculine voice. ‘Anyone at home? You’d left the front door open. It’s us, the Ridleys.’
Jane looked at Jeff, her face white and her eyes round.
‘Malcolm, Carol, lovely to see you. Come on in,’ Jeff shouted, and brushed past his wife, who jumped out of his way. She leant her hands on the kitchen table, put her head down and took a deep breath, but a moment later she turned around and followed her husband into the hall. Preserving the proprieties at Tarnfield House was always her main concern.
‘Hello, Carol dear!’ She kissed her friend. ‘I’m just putting the kettle on. Do go and make yourselves at home in the drawing room. Now, would you like Darjeeling, or Earl Grey?’
30
Whit Sunday night
Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons.
From the Epistle for the Monday in Whitsun Week, Acts 10:34
‘But I think you should get over here, Nigel. I can’t get much out of him and he might open up to you.’
Suzy felt as if she was talking through clenched teeth. It really pained her to have to tell her husband that Jake had disappeared for the afternoon, coming home truculent and cowed. It hadn’t seemed so bad at first. All the people had overaw
ed him, and Stevie’s friends were sufficiently exotic to give his homecoming an air of the surreal. Plus, there was the added interest of Stevie’s return as a hero.
Alan had come over to Tarn Acres straight away. Suzy could see that Robert was worried they were going to indulge in a passionate embrace in front of everyone, but Alan maintained his tweedy countryman persona, beaming and inviting them down to Church Cottage for the predictable ‘G&Ts’. Suzy and Robert declined. When they’d gone, she’d left Molly with Robert, and knocked on the door of Jake’s bedroom, where he’d retreated.
Trying to be calm, she asked him for an explanation.
‘I just went out with Matt for a spin,’ Jake said, avoiding eye contact. ‘Then he had to go to his sister’s in Carlisle. So I said I’d get the bus home. That’s all, Mum. Don’t fuss.’
‘And don’t you be so rude! I’ve just had half of Tarnfield in here fussing about you!’
‘But I knew you wouldn’t mind me getting a lift off those people, ’cos we know Stevie from the church. And anyway, he said he’d call you. So that was OK.’
‘But Jake, it wasn’t OK, was it? You shouldn’t have gone out with Matt in the first place. You took advantage of me going to All Saints. And you presumed on Mrs Piefield’s time. Plus, you know I don’t like us being under an obligation to neighbours.’
She could hear her voice rising, but knew that a shouting match would be counter-productive. This was the first time she had seriously fallen out with Jake. She had been lucky, she knew that, and she didn’t want to jeopardize their relationship, especially as his father lived seventy miles away, too far to be of any immediate help, but too near to be disregarded — and always ready to criticize her parenting skills.
She said, ‘All right. You go downstairs and make a cup of tea for Robert Clark. He’s been very supportive while I’ve been worried. I’m going to make a phone call.’
