by Jill McGown
‘I’m sorry,’ the sergeant said. ‘I know this must be very difficult for you, and I won’t keep you long, I promise. But I do have to know what went on in here tonight.’
‘That wasn’t tonight,’ her father said. ‘It was this afternoon. It had nothing to do with what happened tonight.’
The sergeant looked over her shoulder. ‘Were you here, Mr Wheeler?’ she asked. She was simply requesting information, but Joanna saw her father’s colour rise a little.
‘No, I was not!’
‘George,’ said her mother, ‘the sergeant has to ask questions.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Wheeler,’ Sergeant Hill said. She turned back to Joanna. ‘When did it happen?’ she asked.
‘I told the inspector,’ Joanna said. ‘Five o’clock.’ She could still hear the clock chiming as Graham advanced on her. Her head ached, and she wanted to close the eyes that it was so painful to keep open. She wanted to be alone, to assess her position, to work out what it all meant, how she felt. Graham was gone. And with his going, the ever-present fear had slipped away from her. But that wasn’t all she was going to feel. She needed the chance to find out.
‘He only stopped because he heard us coming home,’ her father said.
‘You and Mrs Wheeler?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was that?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Let’s see,’ said her father, ‘I stayed at the church for a while. I must have left at about quarter-past five, I think. Is it important?’
Sergeant Hill smiled apologetically. ‘You never really know at this stage in an investigation,’ she said.
‘There were other people there until just before I left,’ he said. ‘You could check with them.’
‘I picked you up at about twenty past,’ said her mother. She turned to Sergeant Hill. ‘We came straight here,’ she said.
‘And is that right, Joanna?’ the sergeant asked. ‘He stopped because he heard your parents coming in?’
‘When he heard their car,’ Joanna said miserably. ‘He went upstairs.’
The inspector came back in then, and apologised for all the disruption, as if it was his fault.
‘I’m afraid we’ll be here for some time,’ he said. ‘There’s a great deal of difficulty getting vehicles here. And there’s—’ He waved a hand. ‘A lot to see to,’ he said.
He meant that they couldn’t get Graham out yet, Joanna thought grimly.
‘Especially,’ he went on, ‘since you say it happened while you were out.’
‘Say?’
Joanna flinched, hearing the danger signals in her father’s voice.
Inspector Lloyd came over to the table, and leant both hands on it, bending down almost conspiratorially. ‘We’ve had to get the lab boys in,’ he said, and Joanna noticed his Welsh accent for the first time. ‘To tell us what went on in there.’ There was a pause. ‘And they can,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Make no mistake. Everything in that room’s got a story to tell.’ He looked directly at Joanna when he spoke again. ‘So if any of you could save us some time and trouble . . .’ He waited.
Joanna looked steadily back at him. He had blue eyes.
‘Mrs Elstow?’ he said.
‘I’ve told you all I know.’
He stepped back from the table, and went over to stand by the door, as though she might make a break for it.
‘Joanna,’ Sergeant Hill said. ‘You said just now that Graham ran upstairs? Where did you have the fight with him?’
‘It wasn’t a fight,’ Joanna said helplessly. Then again, almost to herself, ‘It wasn’t a fight.’
‘I’m sorry. Where were you when he hit you?’
‘The sitting room.’
‘Where’s that, love?’ the inspector asked.
‘The last door on the left,’ she said.
He opened the kitchen door, and looked down the hall. ‘You weren’t upstairs with him at any point?’ he asked.
‘No.’
The sergeant glanced at him, and Joanna saw him give a tiny nod.
‘Are you sure, Joanna?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Did you try to defend yourself?’
Defend herself. Joanna shook her head. ‘I just tried to get away,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘I ran to the door, but he slammed it.’
The inspector got up and went out; for some reason that she couldn’t fathom, Joanna felt safer with him there.
‘Didn’t you try to fight back?’
Joanna looked at her, at the clear brown eyes that watched her so closely. ‘You can’t fight back,’ she explained, to this woman who had never been in that position. For all Joanna knew, Sergeant Hill regularly waded into pub brawls and mad axe-men. But she had never been knocked off her feet by her own husband.
‘You must have been angry, Joanna.’
‘Angry?’ Joanna repeated, genuinely puzzled.
The sergeant frowned. ‘Weren’t you?’ she asked.
‘No. I was frightened,’ she said. ‘Frightened.’
The sergeant wrote that down. She wrote everything down. It was beginning to irritate Joanna.
‘What did you do after he’d gone upstairs?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘But your parents had come home,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see them?’
‘No. I didn’t leave the sitting room. I heard them come in, and then they went upstairs.’
‘And you stayed where you were?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘It would be about a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes,’ her father supplied. ‘We didn’t know any of this had happened, and we just went up to change. We thought—’ He broke off. ‘We thought Joanna was in her room,’ he said. ‘We didn’t want to disturb her.’
The sergeant looked back at Joanna. ‘But you were downstairs all the time?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Until Daddy came in and found me.’
‘Why, Joanna?’
‘Look – is this really necessary?’ her father demanded.
‘Why?’ asked Sergeant Hill again.
Joanna swallowed.
‘Why didn’t you come out when your parents came home? Why didn’t you tell them what had happened?’
‘Because—’ Joanna could feel her skin redden, as she tried to explain. ‘Because you feel ashamed,’ she said.
*
Eleanor quietly placed the pedal-car at the foot of the bed. The pale moonlight lit the room, with assistance from the snow, and for a second, she recalled exactly the moment of waking to find her stocking bulging and lumpy with presents.
Tessa would be awake in a couple of hours, she told herself. It wasn’t sensible to stay up half the night worrying about something she couldn’t alter.
She cried, as she watched Tessa sleep. If only Tessa had known him; if only he could have seen her. But the tears weren’t for Richard. He was beyond tears, and had been from the moment the car hit him. For a while, during the long evening, she had thought that she had been released from the crushing loneliness. George had needed her, and it had been so long since anyone at all had needed her.
Tessa needed her, she reminded herself, as she watched her turn, and sigh contentedly. But that was dependence, and that wasn’t the same. A two-year-old takes love where she finds it; she was as happy with her grandmother as she was with Eleanor. But George had needed her. Not someone who would feed him and clothe him, and keep him safe. He could do that for himself. He had needed her, and she had helped him. She hadn’t been able to help Richard, and that had been the worst part. It had been a long time since she had been able to offer rather than ask for help. It had been a step towards the open door, the light from which now paled the edges of her darkness.
Today had been a turning point. But she shouldn’t have done what she
did; she knew that even at the time, though she couldn’t have stopped herself. She had waited so long. So perhaps the tears were remorse. A brief moment of satisfaction, followed by the reckoning. The tears were for herself.
She tucked the quilt round Tessa’s sleeping figure. Perhaps it hadn’t been the release she had longed for, but it had been a moment’s respite; she deserved that.
And the tears were drying.
They were taking the tumble-dried clothes out of the washing-machine. They had asked politely enough, and George had given his permission with a co-operative readiness that he did not feel. George watched the two constables who were carefully listing the clothes, then dragged his attention back to the inspector.
‘When did you and your daughter get back from the pub?’ he asked.
‘Just before ten,’ said George quickly, not looking at Joanna. ‘Joanna was tired, so we left a little earlier than usual.’
‘And you came straight home?’
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘But as Joanna said, we were locked out. Surely that’s important?’ he asked. The inspector hadn’t seemed terribly interested. ‘It wasn’t accidental,’ he said. ‘We never lock the doors.’
‘Never?’ the sergeant asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s still no need to lock doors in Byford. Not the vicarage doors, at any rate. We’ve nothing here worth stealing.’
‘But you still think someone came in to steal tonight?’ the inspector asked.
‘I think we had an intruder,’ George said carefully. ‘When whoever it was went into Joanna’s room, Elstow presumably startled him. And for some reason, he must have locked the doors when he left.’
Joanna buried her face in her hands, and Marian put her arm round her shoulders.
‘Whoever it was would have needed a key for the back door,’ said the inspector.
‘The key’s kept in the door,’ said George.
‘I thought Graham had done it,’ Joanna said, not taking her hands from her face, ‘I thought he was just—’
‘And the front door’s a Yale lock,’ said the inspector, almost to himself. ‘But why would anyone want to lock the doors?’
George wasn’t sure if a reply was needed. He shook his head.
‘Well,’ said Lloyd. ‘We’ll see what prints we can get. Lucky you had a key, Mrs Wheeler.’
‘There’s one on the ring with the car-keys,’ she said.
‘Before you left for the pub,’ asked Sergeant Hill, ‘did anyone check on Mr Elstow?’
‘No,’ George said heavily. ‘Marian asked me to let him sober up first.’
‘After you came back?’
‘We thought he’d locked us out. We left him to stew.’
‘So from five o’clock, nobody saw Mr Elstow at all?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Elstow?’ asked Lloyd.
Joanna, her face still buried in her hands, shook her head.
‘The front door,’ Marian said, ‘I pushed the catch up again as we left for the midnight service. I’ve probably spoiled any fingerprints.’
‘What about the back door?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I unlocked it,’ said George. ‘It annoyed me – I thought Elstow . . .’ He ran his hands over his face. ‘It has to have been a burglar,’ he said.
‘But nothing was taken,’ Sergeant Hill said quietly. ‘You’ve got presents under the tree in the hall – why would he go upstairs?’
‘I’ve no idea. Evidently he did.’
‘Why would he come in and go straight to the one room that had someone in it?’ she asked.
He looked from her to the inspector. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But that’s what must have happened.’
‘That’s it,’ said the policewoman who was making out the laundry list. ‘Would you sign it, please, Mrs Wheeler?’
Marian signed it, and was given a copy.
‘We’ll try not to hang on to them too long,’ said the inspector. ‘But what with Christmas and everything, I can’t promise. We really do appreciate your co-operation.’
‘We understand,’ George said. ‘You’re welcome to take anything you think will help.’
‘I suppose you’ve got your job to do,’ Marian said, and the inspector looked a little uncomfortable.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s just that whoever did do it must have changed his clothes. We have to eliminate possibilities as well as investigate them.’
Marian stood up. ‘If there’s nothing else you want Joanna for,’ she said, ‘I think it’s time she got some sleep.’
‘Of course,’ said Lloyd.
‘I know you’re taking these clothes away because you think I did it,’ Joanna said.
‘We’re trying to establish what happened,’ Lloyd said. ‘That’s all.’
George almost believed him. He kissed Joanna, and Marian took her off. He turned back to face Lloyd, his shoulders sagging. ‘You do think Joanna killed him,’ he said.
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Lloyd. ‘Isn’t it?’
George got up and filled the kettle. ‘I think I’d like a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Good old English stand-by. Will you join me? I’m very aware that we are ruining your Christmas.’
The sergeant frowned a little. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘that your own Christmas has been improved.’
He filled the kettle, and switched it on. ‘Sergeant Hill,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘my Christmas was ruined when that young man came here this afternoon. The fact that he will hopefully soon be leaving my house, albeit feet first, is a source of considerable satisfaction to me.’
Sergeant Hill’s eyes widened.
‘You think a man of the cloth should be showing more compassion,’ he said.
‘Or more discretion,’ she said, with a smile.
He laughed. Really laughed. He liked this lady with the shrewd brown eyes and quick tongue.
‘All I know is that Joanna won’t suffer at his hands any more,’ he said. ‘And quite frankly, ‘I don’t care who killed him. But it wasn’t Joanna.’
‘You seem very protective of your daughter, Mr Wheeler,’ Lloyd said.
‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘No more than any other parent.’
The sergeant wandered over to the window wall, where Marian had begun pinning up the photographs of Joanna when she was three weeks old. George watched her as she perused them.
‘My wife had two miscarriages before Joanna was born,’ he said. ‘We were told she shouldn’t have any more children after Joanna.’
‘She’s very pretty,’ said Sergeant Hill.
‘But you have to find that out from a photograph,’ George said. ‘She isn’t very pretty tonight.’ He stood up, and walked over to where the sergeant stood. ‘She’s twenty-one years old,’ he said, and tapped the wall. ‘That’s all twenty-one years of her.’ He looked at the photographs. ‘Two months ago, I had to bring her home from hospital, Sergeant.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said George. ‘Cracked ribs. A broken collar-bone. Battered – that’s the word, isn’t it?’
‘Did she bring charges against him?’ she asked.
George shook his head. ‘I thought you’d understand about battered wives, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘They’re too ashamed – too scared. Too—’ He shrugged, and walked away. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Do you have children, Sergeant?’
‘No.’
‘Inspector?’
‘Two,’ Lloyd said. ‘A boy and a girl.’
‘How would you feel?’ George asked. ‘How would you feel, if you found your daughter in the state that mine is in tonight?’
Lloyd’s blue eyes looked at him steadily. ‘Angry,’ he said.
George nodded. ‘That’s how I feel,’ he said.
‘And,’ Lloyd carried on, ‘I’d think he’d deserved all he’d got.’
George sat down heavily.
‘And if I came in,’ said Lloyd in measured tones, ‘and found her laying into him
with a poker, I might feel inclined to . . . fix it?’ he suggested. ‘Fix it so that she didn’t get the blame.’
‘So might I,’ said George. ‘So might I. But, fortunately, it wasn’t necessary.’
Lloyd didn’t believe him, he could see that.
Marian sat with Joanna until she fell asleep, her poor battered face almost peaceful. Upstairs, people still moved about, rattling up and down the stairs, going in and out of the door. Using the telephone. Talking in low voices. Across the hall, they were even in the sitting room. She bent down and kissed Joanna as she had when she was a child, and said a prayer for her. Then she straightened up, and went back to the kitchen.
‘Mrs Wheeler,’ Inspector Lloyd said, getting to his feet. ‘I think I’m in your seat.’
‘Oh, no. Please. Sit down again. I’ll sit here.’ She sat at the table with the sergeant.
‘We’ll be out of your hair soon, Mrs Wheeler,’ she said.
Marian looked across at George, who smiled quietly at her. ‘What time is it?’ she asked him.
He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-five to five,’ he said.
Marian had thought it must be much later. ‘Why are they in the sitting room?’ she asked the inspector.
He cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Your daughter says that she and her husband were in there when he lost his temper,’ he said. ‘She was pretty badly knocked about, Mrs Wheeler. The room isn’t.’
‘I tidied it,’ Marian said. ‘Before all this. After we found her in there.’
She watched realisation dawn in the inspector’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think – I must be tired.’
Marian was surprised that she wasn’t. She ought to be. But somehow it just felt as if this was happening to someone else. ‘Are you accusing Joanna of killing him?’ she asked.
‘We’re not accusing anyone,’ said the inspector. ‘Not yet.’
‘Mrs Wheeler?’ the sergeant said. ‘No one at all saw Mr Elstow between five o’clock, when he left your daughter, and just before one, when you found him. That’s right?’
‘Yes,’ said Marian, a little worried.
‘No one went to check on him, or try to talk to him?’
‘No.’
‘So what made you go up when you did, Mrs Wheeler?’
She looked at George. It must be agony for him, sitting there, putting up with all these questions, hardly answering back at all. He’d called it pretending to be a vicar, earlier on. He’d been in such a funny mood all day. And that sermon was odd, too. As she watched, George pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. And there, hanging out of his pocket, was his tie.
