In the Family

by Christina James

  “I don’t know. Look, if you’re going to keep on questioning me like this, you should let me have a solicitor present.”

  “Fair point, Mr. Atkins. We’ll leave it there. But I shall need you to accompany me to the station, so that I can repeat some of these questions formally, as you point out, with your solicitor present. I will tell you that I am also going to arrange for a warrant to search the works yard of the tractor company next door. I believe that your family owned the land at the time of your mother’s murder?”

  “Yes,” said Ronald. Tim had hoped that this last statement would hit Ronald Atkins like a bombshell: but it seemed to cause no particular emotion in him. “Shall I call my solicitor now?”

  “You can do that from the station.”

  Tim led Ronald Atkins back through the ghost shop again, holding tightly to his arm while he locked the door, though he doubted that the septuagenarian would try to make a run for it. He also doubted that his own safety was at risk while driving with Ronald in the car, though strictly speaking he knew that he should have called for a patrol car. When they reached his vehicle, he saw a scrap of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper. Lifting it out, he found that it had been painstakingly inscribed with an address in Skegness, spelt out in clear, childish capital letters by a hand unused to writing much. He tucked it into his pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Peter hands me the file of newspaper clippings. I tell him, truthfully, that I have never read an account of the trial before and that I am likely to become emotional as I read it. I ask him to let me read it by myself. I grab the pink folder and take it into the vestibule at the end of the carriage. There are two little flip-down seats attached to the wall next to the lavatory. I sit down on one of these and start reading.

  Peter’s researcher friend has done a good job. The first clippings are from the Spalding Guardian and dated two days after my grandmother died: 4th September 1975. The Spalding Guardian is a weekly newspaper, which will explain the short delay that had taken place between my grandmother’s death and the publication of the story. The story was plastered all over the front page, though the actual report was very short. Most of the space was taken up by several very grainy photographs of the shop and one of an ambulance parked outside it, though rather quaintly no individuals were named.

  Police called to the premises of a local shopkeeper on Tuesday 2nd September confirm that they discovered there the body of a sixty-three-year-old woman in the residential part of the building, on the ground floor. Chief Inspector Richard Cushing, making a brief statement to the Press, said that the circumstances of the woman’s death were suspicious, but that he could release no further details. It is understood that a forty-five-year-old woman is helping with enquiries. The owner of the shop and his very elderly mother are being comforted by relatives.

  Next door neighbour Miss Marjorie Needham said that she had heard shouting and sobbing coming from the house at approximately two-forty p.m. on Tuesday afternoon. This was unusual: her neighbours were very quiet people who kept themselves to themselves, when not working in the shop. However, she knew that they had visitors staying in the house and she had thought that the screams and other noises that she had heard must be some kind of game. She therefore hadn’t attempted to visit her neighbours to enquire if all was well and she certainly did not think that what she heard warranted calling the police. When asked if she had considered that a burglary might have been taking place in the shop, she declined to comment.

  The shop is a convenience store situated in Westlode Street, and has belonged to the same family for more than eighty years.

  The next cutting, from The Lincolnshire Free Press, is even briefer. It describes Tirzah’s appearance at Lincoln Assizes when she is charged with murder.

  Mrs. Dorothy Mary Atkins was charged with the murder of Miss Doris Ann Atkins, which was alleged to have taken place on the afternoon of 2nd September at 36, Westlode Street, Spalding. Mrs. Atkins, who was wearing a purple suit and black blouse, did not speak except to confirm her name and address. No plea was entered. Mr. Justice Evans, presiding, said that the accused should be remanded in custody pending the preparation of psychiatric reports. Responding to a request for bail from the defendant’s solicitor, Mr. Liam O’Donnell, the judge, said that bail could not be granted because he did not accept that if freed Mrs. Atkins was not likely to harm either herself or others.

  After this come several clippings from different newspapers speculating on what had happened in the house and why ‘Dorothy Mary Atkins’ might have murdered her mother-in-law. Peter has folded all of these in half, presumably to remind himself to skip them because they are really only a record of journalistic water-treading, of keeping public interest alive until the case is heard in court. I riffle through them, nevertheless. One of them interests and annoys me in equal parts: a luridly sensational account from Ronald Atkins of his marriage to my mother, complete with his own analysis of her mental condition. This was published in a magazine called People’s Post. It is followed by another short clipping which records that Ronald Atkins has been reprimanded by the judge following a complaint from the defence for divulging the information and opinions contained in this article, and has been forbidden to talk further to the media on pain of contempt of court. I wonder if it is because of the article that my mother became so notorious. I have never quite understood why the whole country became so obsessed with the murderess of one little old lady. After all, murders happen all the time.

  There follows a substantial sheaf of clippings from several national newspapers describing the actual court case. Once more Peter’s ‘little researcher’ has served him with assiduity; she has included stuff from the whole spectrum of news on the subject, from the lurid to the learned. She seems to have found more about the case in The Times than other publications, however, and I decide to read the articles from this newspaper in sequence.

  Although the accounts stretch to many pages, the most striking thing about them is how little happens during the court hearings, and how slight is the amount of admissible evidence presented. My mother refuses to enter a plea. Uncle Colin is called but can recollect nothing – his mother, my great-grandmother, has died in the interim and clearly the surge of grief that he feels at her death far eclipses any thoughts or feelings he may harbour for Doris. My father is called as a witness, but says that he only arrived after Doris was dead. However, he is questioned at length about his marriage to my mother and provides chapter and verse about how difficult she is to live with, though in more restrained terms than were used in the magazine article. Miss Needham tells her story of strange noises that nevertheless did not strike her as alarming enough to interfere with her neighbour’s privacy. And so on. No-one actually admits to having seen my mother kill my grandmother and all the evidence against her is circumstantial.

  And then, since she still refuses to plead one way or the other, Liam O’Donnell offers a plea on her behalf: guilty.

  After this, Dr. Bertolasso says that she had a ragbag of psychiatric problems, including depression, narcissism and borderline personality disorder. He is asked to elaborate particularly on what he means by ‘narcissim’ and how it might affect someone who has been accused of murder. Mr. O’Donnell objects to this on the ground that the narcissim and the charge of murder are two separate ‘events’ that should not be conflated. His objection is upheld.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ronald Atkins’s solicitor was a surprise. A tall, broad woman with a nest of ash-blonde hair, she arrived in a flurry of intense perfume and leopard-printed chiffon, announcing breathlessly that she had been delayed during her drive from Peterborough (so that was why he didn’t recognise her, Tim thought: she wasn’t a local) by cows on the road. Tim immediately marked her down as ‘fluffy’ and decided that she wouldn’t cause him any problems. He was shortly to regret this snap judgment.

  “Detective Inspector Yates,” he
said, holding out his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Jean Rook,” she replied. She extended her own hand, which was tipped with formidable red talons. “Where is my client?”

  “I’ll take you to him. Would you like some time alone with him before we start?”

  “That would be helpful, Inspector,” she said levelly, suddenly transformed into a professional woman, despite the tight black skirt that was slit on one side and the filmy leopardskin blouse. She followed Tim down the corridor, not teetering at all on her four-inch stiletto heels.

  Ronald was sitting at the square white table in the incident room in much the same pose that he had adopted at the table at Westlode Street. He rose to greet Ms Rook. She shook his hand and nodded a firm dismissal at Tim.

  “Five minutes,” he said, as she closed the door on him.

  He returned exactly five minutes later, with Juliet Armstrong. Ms Rook and Ronald Atkins were sitting bolt upright on the far side of the table. Ronald was looking, if not arrogant, much more confident. Ms Rook simply looked very stern.

  “This is DC Juliet Armstrong,” Tim said. “She will be responsible for recording the conversation.” He gestured to Juliet to sit at the smaller table which had been placed near the door, upon which sat a tape recorder.

  “Have you cautioned my client, Inspector Yates?”

  “No,” said Tim. “At the moment, there are no charges. I want to continue to ask Mr. Atkins some questions that I began to put to him at his home, but which he very properly said that he would only answer with a solicitor present.”

  “But he did answer some of your questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you take notes at the meeting?”

  “No. It was an informal meeting.”

  “Then I suggest that you expunge it from the record completely – even from memory. As you know, there is no prospect of your being able to use it as evidence in a court of law. If you wish to ask those questions again, you may of course do so in my presence.”

  “Thank you,” said Tim, giving a slight bow. “That is precisely what I intend to do.”

  Jean Rook placed her elbows on the table and listened intently as Tim began his interrogation.

  “Let us start again. Mr. Atkins, why was your daughter Bryony not called as a witness at either the inquest into your mother’s death or at your first wife’s trial?”

  “My client need not answer that question,” said Jean Rook immediately. “The responsibility for calling witnesses on either of the occasions that you mention clearly did not devolve upon him.”

  “Very well. Point taken. May I ask you, Mr. Atkins, whether your daughter Bryony was at the shop in Westlode Street at the time of your mother’s death?”

  “Mr. Atkins should not answer that question, either, Inspector. It is my understanding that he was not on the premises himself when his mother died. Therefore, any response that he could give would only be conjectural, and consequently misleading.”

  Tim inclined his head again. The woman was beginning to annoy him, though he was determined that she should not see it. Juliet, sitting at her small table alone, recognised the signs – the momentary clenching of his fingers against his palms, the setting of his jaw which he quickly transformed into a wry smile – and hoped that he would be able to maintain his normal detached and courteous manner. If he did not, she knew that the solicitor would be likely to score a victory.

  Tim stood up and leaned against the main table in the interrogation room. He bent forward for a while, as if in thought, so that neither the solicitor nor Ronald Atkins could see his face. He stood like this for some time, until the room became very silent. Ronald Atkins began to look uncomfortable. Jean Rook did not move. She continued to stare at Tim, and tried to make him meet her eyes when eventually he did look up.

  He outwitted her by raising his head suddenly and thrusting his face at Ronald Atkins so that he was forced to meet his gaze.

  “When did you last see your daughter?” he rapped out. He realised that the question sounded almost comic, put that way, but Ronald was not laughing. His face was the colour of parchment.

  “I don’t know. At some point during the autumn in which my mother was killed.”

  “That was in 1975?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it before or after your mother’s death?”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Atkins! Two things happened that autumn, two calamitous things as far as you were concerned, or at least so I should suppose: your daughter disappeared and your mother died a violent death, for which your wife was convicted of murder. Are you really trying to tell me that you can’t remember which of these things happened first?”

  “Inspector, you are behaving in an intimidating way. I must ask you to sit down.” Jean Rook got her remark in quickly, while Ronald was still trying to decide what to say.

  “I apologise,” said Tim grimly, taking his seat once again. “Do you allow, Ms Rook, that the question is a fair one, and one that I may expect to get an answer to, if put in a civilised way?”

  “On the face of it, yes,” she said levelly, meeting his gaze. She put her hand on Ronald’s wrist. This was clearly a signal that she had prearranged with him to warn him not to speak. He sat there mute as one minute stretched out into two. Eventually, Ms Rook spoke again.

  “Well, Inspector? You offered to put your question in a civilised manner. We’re waiting.”

  Juliet thought that Tim would explode. Instead, he took a deep breath and hung his arms down by his sides. She could see that he was trying to relax his shoulders.

  “Mr. Atkins, would you mind telling us whether the last time you saw your daughter was before or after your mother’s death?”

  “It was before it.”

  “Was your daughter still staying in the house at Westlode Street when your mother died?”

  “Yes, in the sense that my whole family had made their home there temporarily, so that my then wife could help my mother look after her mother. But I did not see Bryony on that day, and Tirzah – my wife – subsequently told me that she had gone to Reading University to make some arrangements prior to the start of term.”

  “She would have been a first year student at Reading?”

  “Yes. She left school that summer.”

  “So the reason that she was not called as a witness was because she had not been in the house at the time?”

  “Inspector, I have already . . .”

  “Yes,” said Ronald quietly.

  Then why make a mystery of it, Tim thought. He did not say it aloud, because he knew Ms Rook would say that he was being antagonistic.

  “As I’ve already mentioned, Mr. Atkins, there is no record of your daughter ever having attended Reading University, though it is true that she was awarded a place in the summer of 1975. Also, her National Insurance number was not used again after that summer. Did you have any contact with her after your mother’s death?”

  Ronald Atkins took a long time to answer.

  “No,” he said. The word seemed to choke him.

  “Did you not think it odd that she didn’t contact you – write or telephone? Did you perhaps know, or think, that she was in touch with your wife, or your son? Did either of them mention her to you?”

  “No.” The same strangled voice.

  “What did you think had happened to her?”

  Ronald cleared his throat.

  “I thought that she had probably been traumatised by her grandmother’s death and her mother’s conviction for murder. I thought that she might have changed her identity. Hedley thought so. I think that it was him who first suggested it.”

  “Indeed. Did it never cross your mind that it might be a good idea to report her as a missing person?”

  “No,” said Ronald A
tkins. Suddenly he seemed to have regained some of his confidence, as if he was back in a part of the script that he had rehearsed properly. “I was very shaken up by what had happened. I had to take some time off work to recover. It was only some months later that I really thought about what Bryony might be doing and then Hedley reassured me with the explanation that I have given you. I did not think that it was up to me to try to track her down if she had been able to make a happy life for herself without any of the bad publicity that was sticking to the rest of us.” His voice was almost sanctimonious now.

  “Thank you, Mr. Atkins. One last question.”

  Ronald Atkins met his eye tremulously.

  “How do you feel about Bryony now? Do you feel sad that all these years have gone by without your knowing where she is or what she is doing? Would you like to see her again now?”

  “I . . . no, I don’t think that I would. All of that is past and buried. We are left with what we’re left with. Nothing can change the past. Nothing can bring the Bryony that I knew back.”

  Tim was watching him closely as he spoke. He did not look sad, or even wistful. No, Tim thought, the expression stamped all over his face was one of fear: fear for himself, in all probability.

  “Is that all, Inspector?” asked Jean Rook.

  “Yes, thank you Ms. Rook. Thank you, Mr. Atkins.”

  “In that case, I assume that Mr. Atkins may go home now?”

  Tim nodded his assent.

  “But please don’t go away from the town without telling us, Mr. Atkins. We may need your co-operation again in a day or so.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tim Yates was not a man who was easily depressed, but he did not like seaside towns. He particularly disliked east coast seaside towns in the middle of winter. He was therefore in a bleak mood as he drove the forty-odd miles from Spalding to Skegness, particularly as he suspected that he had embarked upon a wild goose chase. He’d also had quite enough of old people’s homes. He imagined that this one, a retreat for old sailors, would be even more depressing than Elmete Grange had been. Despite Marjorie Needham’s warnings about her brother’s current state of lucidity, however, he knew that he had to at least try to get some sense out of the old man, always supposing that he knew something that it was worth the effort of making sense of.