In the Family

by Christina James

  Her foot encountered something soft. She scrabbled for the light switch, but could not find it, so she crouched down carefully and laid down the chamberpot. She knelt and felt the soft thing with her hand, and thought that it was someone’s arm. Touching it left a sticky trail on her fingers. She was suddenly very frightened.

  “Who’s there?” she said. She thought she could hear someone breathing.

  “Who is it?” she said again. From the shop, she could hear Colin’s radio droning out the news. As usual, he had it turned up almost as loud as it would go. She thought about screaming for him to come. But he might not hear; and if he did and there was nothing amiss she would have humiliated herself for no reason.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said a voice. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

  The light was snapped on. It was a dingy little light – Colin was as mean with light-bulbs as he was with everything else – and she felt disorientated, as if she had suddenly stumbled into a film-set and was required to take part in an unknown plot. She looked down at her hand, and saw the blood. With dread, she allowed her eye to travel further, and saw that she was kneeling beside Doris’s body. The blood on her hand was from a deep cut on Doris’s arm. It was not the sort of wound that could kill. For a moment, Tirzah hoped against hope that her mother-in-law was not dead. But one look at that stricken face lolling at an impossible angle told her that this was naïve. She looked up at the now retreating form of her interlocutor.

  “I didn’t do it, but I’m not staying around here to prove it. You can do that. You’ll be much better at it than me. Besides, it’s all your fault really. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault . . .”

  A doctor took hold of her wrist.

  “You’re a good woman,” he said.

  She smiled and slid away from him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was 9 a.m. on the day following Tirzah’s death. Tim now had the perfect excuse to demand Hedley Atkins’ return. No-one at Maschler’s seemed to have been given an address in Scotland at which he could be reached, so he had announcements broadcast on the radio. Will Mr. Hedley Atkins, of 12 Welland Villas, Spalding, Lincolnshire, who is believed to be on holiday in the Solway Firth Area, please contact Inspector Tim Yates of South Lincolnshire Police to receive urgent information regarding a close relative. While he was waiting for this message to produce results, he decided that another visit to the house in Westlode Street would be worthwhile. He wanted to gauge Ronald’s reaction to his former wife’s death. He also wanted to look again at the passage in which Doris Atkins had died. This time he did not let Ronald know that he was coming.

  For once, Westlode Street was not completely lined with parked vehicles on both sides of the road. The space in front of the shop itself was free. Tim wondered as he parked his battered BMW in the spot whether this meant that Ronald was out. In some ways it would be useful if he could see Doreen on her own – but if she wasn’t there, either, the journey would have been wasted.

  The house adjoining the shop – the one that Ronald had indicated had been the Needham residence – was narrower than its neighbour, and had no bay window. Its main front door was the twin of the door to the passageway which Colin had used as a storeroom for so many years, except that it was painted dingily in maroon. As Tim stepped out of his car, he became aware that the maroon door was shuddering. Eventually the person behind it succeeded in forcing it open. A tall, powerfully-built woman with frizzled grey hair stepped out and rushed swiftly across to him, with such urgent purposefulness that for a moment he was alarmed.

  “Hello,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  “Morning. Probably not, but I think I know you: you’re that copper who dug up the garden next door, aren’t you? My name’s Marjorie Needham. Miss. I heard the radio announcement for Hedley.”

  “Yes, I am indeed that copper,” said Tim. Remembering the twitching curtains, he did not even show surprise. He remembered something else as well, and that set him thinking. Ronald Atkins had said, ‘At one point there was a very large and rowdy family next door: the Needhams’. Why had he referred to them as if they were no longer living there?

  “What were you looking for? In the garden, I mean?”

  “I’m not quite sure. Evidence of some kind, I suppose. We didn’t find anything, though, so I expect my hunch was wrong.”

  She wagged her finger at him, incongruously coquettish in her flowered house-dress and down-at-heel slippers. He saw that she was quite elderly, though he had not realised it at first because of her vigour and the way that she stood upright.

  “A little bird told me that you were after Bryony Atkins’ body. I wouldn’t be surprised. You know no-one’s seen her since around the time Doris died? She just vanished into thin air.”

  “Did you know Bryony?”

  “Not well – she didn’t live here, though she stayed over sometimes. Colin and his mother disapproved of my family, so we weren’t really on speaking terms with the Atkins. Except my brother Frank, that is: he carried a torch for Tirzah.” She sniggered.

  “For Tirzah? You mean for Dorothy Atkins?”

  “There wasn’t anyone else around here called Tirzah, was there? She was sweet on him, too. Had my mother in a fair old panic. Frank was engaged and Tirzah was married, see, and although people said that we were a bit rowdy as a family, we had our standards. Good Catholics, too. Mam needn’t have worried, though. Frank lost interest in Tirzah after what she did. Well, anyone would, wouldn’t they? That was when he started wondering about Bryony. He came up with the idea that she was in the garden, too.”

  “Why did he think that?”

  “He saw something going on in the garden when he was here one day. In the early morning, it was. He said something to Tirzah about it, and he thought that she was – shifty, like – about it. He said that wasn’t like her. Tell the truth and shame the devil, usually, she was. Besides, Bryony and Hedley were both staying in the house at the time, but only Hedley gave evidence at the trial.”

  “Frank may have been letting his imagination carry him away, even so. As you know, we’ve dug up the garden pretty thoroughly, and the only skeletons we’ve found were those of old dray horses.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. It occurred to Tim that she looked a bit like a mad dray horse herself.

  “Ah, but you see, you didn’t get all of it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Get all of what?”

  “The garden, silly!” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “You weren’t to know, of course: though when I saw you, I did think of coming down to tell you. But Ronald wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “Come to tell me what?”

  “The garden was twice the size in those days. All of that land on the other side of the wall, where the inspection pits for the tractors are now, belonged to the Atkins then. It was mostly orchard – apples and pears. Ronald played there as a boy, and so did I, sometimes, when I was allowed – he was about my age, we were younger than Frank and Iris – and then his children played there too. Bryony and Hedley – funny names Tirzah chose, didn’t she? That was where Frank saw the digging. Not in Doris Atkins’s flower garden, which is where you were looking.”

  “Well, that is very interesting. Thank you, Miss Needham. Is he still alive – your brother, I mean?”

  “He is, but he’s not very – available, like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in a home for old sailors, in Skegness – he spent some time in the merchant navy, you know. But he’s partially deaf and almost blind; and his memory’s not up to much, either.”

  “Even so, would it be possible for you to let me have his address? I promise you I won’t distress him.”

  She laughed. “You’d have a job! I can let you have it if you like; but I don’t think it will be much use. Oh Lord,” she added, “here comes Ronald. Don’t you
go letting him know that I’ve been telling tales out of school. He won’t be pleased; and Iris and I have enough trouble with them as neighbours as it is.”

  “Who’s Iris?”

  “She’s my older sister: Frank’s twin. We were the two unmarried girls, see, which is why we got the house. For looking after Mam, as much as anything. Iris is blind, too, but she’s a lot sharper than Frank. It was Iris that Frank told about the garden. Close as could be, those two were. They told each other everything, right up until the time they took Frank away. Now I do have to go – Ronald’ll be here in a minute. I’ll leave the address tucked under your windscreen wipers.”

  Tim was about to suggest a safer arrangement, but she had already skipped away from him and was pushing at the door, trying to get it open again. Looking up the street, he saw Ronald Atkins approaching on foot. Ronald had his hands hunched in the pockets of his overcoat, and was looking down at the pavement. The soles of his shoes slapped the pavement heavily. Evidently he had not spotted either of them. Tim waited until Marjorie Needham had burst back into her house before turning to face Ronald, who was within five yards of him before he finally raised his eyes.

  “Oh, it’s you again.”

  His expression seemed to reveal some intense private misery, but he quickly reassembled his features into the half-suspicious, half-insolent smile that Tim remembered from their last meeting.

  Tim extended his hand:

  “Good morning, Mr. Atkins. May I express my condolences at the death of your former wife? Also, would you mind if I took up a little more of your time? There are one or two extra questions that I’d like to ask. I think you might be able to help me again.”

  “Forget about sympathy for Tirzah: you know what I thought about her. As for your questions: I don’t suppose I have much choice really, do I?”

  “It is your prerogative to refuse; but even if you don’t co-operate, I can still ask you to come to the station; and I can get another search warrant, if I see the need.”

  “I see. Back to that again, are we? Well I hope that this time you’ll leave the bloody garden alone. What’s it to be now? Ripping out the chimneys?”

  “Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes? Unless you prefer to conduct this conversation in public.”

  Tim looked meaningfully across at the Needhams’ house. Ronald was just quick enough to see the lace nets shimmer as someone moved away from them.

  “Probably best if you do come in,” he said grudgingly. “They’re a right pair of nosy bitches, those two.” He fiddled with the bunch of keys that he drew from his pocket, and selected two large shiny Chubbs.

  Ronald had closed the shop when Colin had become too ill to run it, more than twelve years ago now, but the front of the house had never been returned to domestic use. From the outside, because of the frosted glass, it still looked like a shop: even down to the detail of someone’s having hung a ‘closed’ sign permanently in one of the windows. Inside, the floorboards were bare, and the worn Victorian shelves stood empty. Two ancient disused fridges were huddled in a corner. The high stool that Colin had sat on at the counter was still there. Otherwise, there was nothing but dust. It was a ghost room. It felt very cold.

  It was Ronald who was shivering, however.

  “Come through,” he said peevishly. “There’s no point in standing around in here.”

  Tim followed him into the Victorian dining-room that he had barely taken in on his first visit, preoccupied as he had been with getting Doreen Atkins on his side. He looked around him now, and saw a room decorated in dark cream and green, with two outsize stuffed chairs covered in dark green leather by the fireplace. There was a gilt ormolu mirror over the fireplace, and, on the other side of the room, a marble-topped chiffonière over which another heavy mirror was suspended. Above this was a reproduction of The Thin Red Line, so that the picture was repeated in an endless corridor of images between the two mirrors. The effect was unsettling. The centre of the room was dominated by an unwieldy square table with bulbous legs, on which a dark crimson red cloth had been placed. A heavy green curtain hung over the door that led into the shop. As well as the picture, the walls were decorated with sets of sepia photographs of the children of a large family, mounted in threes in oblong passé partout frames. Somewhat incongruously, a 1950s radiogram stood in the corner nearest the window. Only the curtains, made of some kind of light-coloured chintz patterned in pale green, relieved the gloom. Doreen’s touch, Tim supposed. Aside from the radiogram, the rest of the stuff looked as if it had been there for a hundred years.

  Where was Doreen?

  “Is your wife out, Mr. Atkins?”

  “Yes – No. Not out in the sense that you mean. She’s away visiting her cousin for a few days.”

  “Indeed? When will she be back?”

  “Oh, Saturday or Sunday, I should think.”

  “You don’t sound very certain.”

  Ronald Atkins tore off his overcoat and threw it at one of the armchairs. He took off his jacket as well, and loosened his shirt collar, although the room was not noticeably warmer than the shop had been. He sat down heavily on one of the hard dining chairs.

  “I’m not certain. Doreen’s upset – very upset – and you lot don’t help. At least she’s not here to see that you’ve come back again. She says that this place gives her the creeps, that it’s full of unsolved business. She’s been talking to the neighbours, too, and they’ve put ideas into her head. That’s why she’s gone away. I don’t know when she’ll be back – or even if she will.”

  “What sort of ideas, Mr. Atkins? Have they been talking about your daughter Bryony, perhaps?”

  Ronald Atkins blanched visibly. He looked at Tim unsteadily for a moment and then dropped his gaze to the red plush tablecloth and kept it there.

  “Well, don’t you have anything to say, Mr. Atkins? Can you tell me why Bryony is not mentioned in any of the statements or reports about your mother’s death? Or where she went to after she left this house? She was staying here when your mother died, wasn’t she? The whole family was. When did Bryony leave and where did she go? Or perhaps she didn’t leave. Why is it that no-one has heard of her for more than thirty years? And even more to the point, why haven’t you tried to find out where she is?”

  Tim became conscious of the fact that he had raised his voice and, because he was still standing, that he was towering over Ronald, who had now folded his arms across the top of his head.

  “I apologise,” Tim said. “Let us take this calmly, one step at a time. May I sit down?”

  Ronald nodded.

  “Would you like a drink? A glass of water, perhaps?”

  Ronald nodded again.

  Tim opened the door that led into the bleak little kitchen, and found a blue and white striped pottery mug on the draining board. He gave it a cursory rinse, and filled it with water from the tap.

  “There you are.” Ronald Atkins lifted the mug to his lips in a perfunctory way, and put it down again.

  “Are you ready to talk now?” Ronald nodded.

  “First of all, can you confirm that your daughter Bryony was indeed staying in this house at the time of your mother’s death?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Why wasn’t she mentioned in any of the police reports about the death, or called as a witness during the inquest and your former wife’s trial?”

  “I don’t know. She’d gone away by then. Dorothy didn’t want her to be involved.”

  “When did she go away, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. Some time before it happened. Very shortly before, I believe.”

  “By ‘it’, you mean your mother’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did Bryony go?”

  “I’m not sure. Dorothy said that it was something to do with the university course that she was about to start. Bryony an
d I weren’t close.”

  “Evidently. But I had understood that you and Dorothy weren’t ‘close’, either. Am I now to understand that you and she worked together to orchestrate the evidence? In short, that you conspired together to present your own version of events?”

  “Not exactly. Dorothy just said that as Bryony had not been there, it was unnecessary to involve her in the court case, just when she was starting a new life. I saw no reason to disagree.”

  “You are aware that as well as the considerable notoriety that she achieved for herself, your wife was also famous for telling the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t disagree that honesty was one of her positive attributes?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Atkins, you will forgive me for saying that I think it rather odd that you have come up with this explanation only after the death of the former Mrs. Atkins. Is that because she is no longer able to contradict your version of events?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Let us return to Bryony. If what you say is true, she departed for university shortly before your mother’s death, and did not return. She also did not attend either her grandmother’s inquest or her mother’s trial and, as far as we know, she did not contact her mother – to whom you say she was ‘close’ – during all the years that she was in prison. In addition to this, her National Insurance number has not been used since she worked as a part-time waitress during that summer and there is no record of her having attended Reading University, although she did win a place there. If this sequence of facts were related to you as an impartial listener, about someone you did not know, what conclusion might you draw?”

  “I don’t know. Hedley thought that Bryony was ashamed of her family after the news came out and built a new life for herself, with a new identity.”

  “Does he have any evidence of this? Do you think it likely?”