Suspicious Death

by Dorothy Simpson

  It was indeed an appalling catalogue of death.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how he survives, I’m sure.’

  ‘I didn’t know he and Mrs Salden had had a baby.’

  ‘Oh yes, they did. Clare, she was called. Well, I don’t suppose there’s many around here would even know about her or care if they did, but I know because I went to the funeral.’

  Their rapt attention encouraged her to elaborate and she stuck the needle back in the ball of green wool and laid down her work.

  ‘You see, what happened was this. When Marcia and Bernard got married – she was only eighteen at the time, and pretty as a picture. A lovely bride she was, I went to the wedding. Got a picture somewhere …’ She looked vaguely around as if it might materialise, but made no effort to get up and show it to them, she was too engrossed in her story.

  Thanet would have liked to see it, to have looked upon that dead face when it was still young and vital with all life’s promise still untapped, but he was afraid of disturbing the flow of reminiscence. It was clear that, like so many elderly people, Mrs Pepper rarely had such a receptive audience and that on this particular occasion she especially welcomed the opportunity to be distracted for a short while from her grief over her friend’s death.

  ‘Anyway, like I said, when they got married they moved up North. Bernard had been a lecturer, see, at the college where Marcia went to night school. He was one of her teachers, and of course it would have been a bit awkward for him to stay on there, marrying one of his students and all that. I don’t suppose people’d pay all that much attention nowadays, but things was different then. So he got himself a job up North and it wasn’t long before Marcia fell for the baby. I don’t think she was too pleased at first, it being so quick and all, but of course she soon got used to the idea, like they all do, and the following year the little girl was born. Bernard was like a dog with two tails, Win said, absolutely over the moon. He’s always loved kids and of course, with his first one being stillborn … Well, you can imagine, can’t you?

  ‘Anyway, a couple of months later he was sent abroad by his firm, and while he was away, the baby died.’

  Mrs Pepper paused for an appropriate reaction.

  Thanet had no problem in showing his very real sympathy for the man. ‘That’s terrible. What happened?’

  ‘She got pneumonia. But the worst of it was, Bernard couldn’t come home for the funeral. He’d been in a car crash and fractured his pelvis and he was stuck in hospital abroad for months. And Win couldn’t go, either, she was in bed with ’flu, it was a terrible winter, that one, people dying like flies … Poor Marcia had to cope all by herself, and she was in such a state, well, you can imagine, can’t you? The next we knew, she was on Win’s doorstep, ashes and all. Said she couldn’t stand being all by herself up North a minute longer, she hated it, especially with no hope of Bernard being back for months and she’d decided the only thing to do was come home … It’s the only time I’ve really felt sorry for Marcia. To tell you the truth, I’ve never had much time for her, hard as nails she was, but that time … I saw her, the day she got here. Thin as a rake and looking as though she hadn’t slept for a month, and clutching that box with the baby’s ashes in it. D’you know, she’d just walked out of her house, shut the front door behind her and left it all. Just like that. No arrangements made, nothing. And she never did go back. Said Bernard could see to it all when he came home but nothing would induce her to set foot over the threshold ever again. Nothing but bad luck it had brought her, she said, which was why she’d brought the baby’s ashes home. She wanted them to be buried here, in Telford Green. Mr Greenhorn was vicar here at the time, I remember. Lovely service it was, too.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like her, Mrs Pepper?’

  ‘Marcia?’ She wrinkled her nose and turned up her upper lip, as if she’d just come across a bad smell. ‘I told you, hard as nails, she was. Never did have much time for her mother – No, I tell a lie. She did care about her, must have, since she made a lot of money she’s been very generous, bought Win everything she could possibly need. But the truth is – though it took me a long time to work it out – Marcia never really forgave her mother for not standing up to her father.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Now there was a right one, believe me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Drink, mostly. He didn’t earn much – him and Bert, my husband God rest his soul, both worked on the farm, so they got the same wages and, believe me, the money didn’t go far – and George, Win’s husband, used to pour most of it into the pockets of the landlord of the Crooked Door on a Friday night. Then he’d come home and beat Win up. Our bedrooms was next to each other on either side of the party wall and many’s the Friday I’ve lain with the bedclothes pulled up over me head to shut out the noise. Nowadays, of course, people call in the police over that sort of thing but forty or fifty years ago it’d never have entered your head to do that. You never heard about “battered wives” and such like in those days. Anyway, the point was, Marcia really’ – she paused, seeking the right word – ‘despised,’ she brought out triumphantly, ‘yes, despised her mother for putting up with it. I heard her going on at her about it more than once. “Why on earth don’t you stand up to him?” she used to say. “He’s only a bully, and bullies turn tail when you stand up to them.” She proved it, too, as she got older. Many’s the time I’ve seen her stick up for herself, and for her mother, too, and George’d shout and bluster, but she’d get away with it. But Win never could, she was too gentle. I always thought that was why Marcia got married so young.’

  ‘To get away from home, you mean?’

  Mrs Pepper nodded. ‘Couldn’t wait to be independent. And that was Bernard’s attraction for her, I reckon. He was able to afford a wife. I mean, he was much older than her, he had a house, a car … It was just too good an opportunity to miss. And Marcia always was ambitious. Determined to make her way in the world.’

  ‘And she certainly did,’ said Lineham. ‘How did she manage it?’

  Something in the Sergeant’s tone made Thanet glance at him sharply.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Pepper, picking up her ball of wool again, ‘it was like this. After the baby died and Marcia came home, she didn’t do nothing for a while. To give her credit, she’d always been a hard worker, went on working right up till six weeks before the baby was born …’

  ‘What sort of work did she do?’ asked Lineham.

  ‘Secretarial. She always was bright, did well at school – wanted to stay on after her O levels, but her father wouldn’t let her, said she was sixteen and it was time she got out in the world and started to earn a living. Terrible rows there was about it, but he wouldn’t give in. So when she left school she got a job as a receptionist in some office, but she enrolled straight away at night school, like I told you, for a course in – what do they call it? – business studies. Yes. Like I said, that was where she met Bernard. Anyway, after they got married she found a good job as a secretary up North, but after the baby died and she come home, she just used to sit about all day doing nothing, staring into space. Often I’d go in there and she’d just be sitting there with the tears rolling down her cheeks, not making a sound. Win was that worried about her.’

  It sounded like a bad case of post-natal depression, exacerbated by grief at losing the baby, thought Thanet.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Gave her tablets and that, but they didn’t seem to do much good.’

  ‘What about her father?’

  ‘Oh, he was dead by then. Died not long after she got married, as a matter of fact, in an accident on the farm. His tractor overturned and of course in them days there was no safety cabs. He was crushed to death.’

  ‘Nasty … Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You were saying, about Marcia …’

  ‘Well, she went on like that for months, we was beginning to wonder if she’d ever come out of it, and then at last she started to improve. Not long after, Bern
ard came home and took her off abroad for a holiday. He was still walking on sticks at the time, but he could get about all right and off they went. It worked wonders for her. By the time they came back she had it all worked out. They would sell their house up North and move back down here, because that’s where the money was. They would buy the lease on a shop with a flat above, and open a health food shop. We thought she was mad at the time, but when Marcia set her mind on something nothing would budge her and of course she was right, wasn’t she? Look at the business now!’

  Marcia must really have got in on the ground floor, thought Thanet. The health food business had boomed in recent years, especially since the Government had started taking an interest in the nation’s health and had launched the campaign for healthy eating. But in the late sixties it had been an unusual choice to make.

  Lineham’s thoughts had been running along similar lines. ‘Whatever gave her the idea?’ he said.

  ‘No idea. But she was sharp, Marcia, very sharp. I remember she talked a lot about a gap in the market. And of course, once she was launched, nothing could stop her.’

  ‘They didn’t want any more children?’ said Thanet.

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. Bernard was very keen, I know. But they just never seemed to come along. After a while he even suggested adopting one, but Marcia didn’t want to do that, said she’d never given up hope of having another of her own, but it wasn’t to be.’

  So Salden had turned to charity work with children as second best, thought Thanet. He’d certainly had more than his fair share of grief. He stood up, ducking to avoid a trailing spider plant. ‘Well, Mrs Pepper, I really am very grateful to you for filling us in like this.’

  She came to her feet slowly, one hand in the small of her back, betraying her age for the first time. ‘I really have been rambling on, haven’t I?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so. But I can’t see that it has anything to do with Marcia’s accident.’

  If it was an accident, thought Thanet.

  The more he heard about Marcia Salden, the more likely a murder victim she seemed.

  EIGHT

  They paused outside Mrs Pepper’s gate.

  ‘What now?’ said Lineham.

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if we chewed things over a bit.’ Thanet took out his pipe, inspected the bowl, scraped it out, inspected it again, blew through it a couple of times and started to fill it. Lineham watched him with resignation.

  ‘Back to headquarters, then?’ The Sergeant glanced at his watch. ‘You realise it’s nearly half-past five, sir? You did tell that TVS reporter to contact your office late in the afternoon.’

  ‘Ah, but I didn’t say I’d be there, did I? Anyway, we can’t talk properly cramped up in the corner of the main CID room with phones ringing and people going in and out …’ Thanet lit up. ‘No, we need somewhere nice and quiet. The car’s as good a place as any, I suppose.’

  The car was in the pub car park, as arranged, with a piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wipers. Keys in pub.

  Lineham fetched them. ‘D’you want to stay here and talk?’ he asked. With a glance at Thanet’s pipe, he wound down the window. ‘Or go somewhere else?’

  ‘Somewhere else, I think. I never have found brick and tarmac very inspiring.’

  ‘I know a place that’d do.’

  Instead of turning left over the bridge towards the Sturrenden road, Lineham turned right. Shortly after leaving the village he swung left into a narrow rising lane, the branches of the trees on either side meeting overhead to form a tunnel. The sun was sinking but still bright and the road surface ahead was dappled with pools and patches of light laced with intricate patterns of shadow cast by still-bare twigs and branches. In summer it must be even more beautiful, thought Thanet, and promised himself that one sunny afternoon he’d bring Joan to see it.

  ‘Where are we going, exactly?’

  Lineham grinned. ‘Nearly there.’

  A few minutes later the trees gave way to hedges and they emerged into a wide expanse of open fields dotted with sheep and cattle. The lane bore around in a wide arc to the left and a few hundred yards further on Lineham pulled into the entrance to a tractor lane and switched off the engine.

  ‘This do?’

  Thanet said nothing, simply nodded then sat taking in the view, which was as fine as any he had seen in Kent. They were now looking at the valley of the Teale below them from the opposite direction, and from much higher up. To right and left the river wound lazily away into the distance, its surface mirror-bright and stained with the colours of the setting sun, the road through the village bisecting it at the bridge in a graceful curve. Immediately below them was the church, its spire casting a long shadow on the green beyond, the roofs of the cottages to either side russet red tinged here and there with purple, ochre and a rich, warm sepia. To the left, in the fields between village and river, lay Telford Green Farm, and beyond, on the far side of the Teale, the densely packed trees of Harry Greenleaf’s wood. Thanet’s gaze lingered here; a tiny figure was walking up the tongue of meadow which led up to the hut. Greenleaf, secure now in the knowledge that his sanctuary was safe for at least a little while longer? Thanet transferred his attention to the Manor, serene in its setting of gardens and parkland and wondered whether Salden had yet awoken from his drug-induced sleep and if he would proceed with the eviction now that Marcia was dead.

  Here, spread out for his inspection, was Marcia Salden’s world – or part of it, at least, the part in which she had functioned as a private individual. Was her murderer also a part of this tranquil scene, even now going about his daily tasks beneath one of those roofs down there and wondering if his crime would be detected?

  Lineham’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  In deference to the Sergeant’s aversion to pipe smoke Thanet wound down his window. The brisk wind of earlier in the day had abated and a light, cool breeze blew in, redolent of earth, trees, cattle and young green crops.

  ‘How did you discover this place?’

  ‘We were out looking for a picnic spot one day, years ago. I’d forgotten about it until we drove into the village this morning, I can’t think why. It would be hard to find a better.’

  ‘I agree …’ Thanet wrenched his eyes away from the landscape below and looked at Lineham. ‘Well, Mike, what do you think? Have we got a case, or haven’t we?’

  The Sergeant was gazing straight ahead out of the window. Free to study his profile at close quarters, Thanet took in Lineham’s pallor, the fine lines of strain around eyes and mouth, the restless tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. What was the matter with him? Normally, at this stage, the Sergeant would be bubbling over with ideas, suggestions.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He turned to face Thanet, leaning back against the driving door. ‘What do you think, sir?’

  ‘Oh come on, Mike, don’t throw it back at me like that. I’m asking for your opinion and I want to know what it is.’

  ‘But that is it. I just can’t make up my mind. Perhaps when we’ve got a bit more evidence …’

  ‘Evidence, evidence … What’s got into you, Mike? I’m usually the one falling over backwards saying take it easy, don’t let’s jump to conclusions … Of course we haven’t got any evidence yet. If it’s there to be found, we’ll find it sooner or later. Meanwhile, you know perfectly well I’m not talking about evidence, I’m talking about impressions of people, about possible motives, opportunities.’

  Lineham shifted uneasily in his seat and his eyes drifted away from Thanet’s. ‘Sorry.’ He frowned, obviously making an effort to focus his mind.

  Thanet opened the car door, put one foot out and emptied his pipe by tapping it against his heel. The familiar action soothed him a little, but he still couldn’t entirely suppress the anger in his voice as he said, ‘I don’t know what sort of a fool you take me for, Mike, but it’s as plain as a pikestaff that something�
��s wrong and I’m fed up with asking what it is. Now, your private life is your own affair and I have no wish to pry. If something’s wrong between you and Louise, then it’s up to you to take steps to sort it out. But your work’s another matter. In this state you’re as much use to me as a wet flannel and I feel I have every right to ask. So come on, tell me. What’s the matter?’

  While Thanet was speaking Lineham had been looking more and more uncomfortable. Now he glanced uneasily at Thanet, opened his mouth, shut it again.

  ‘Mike … Come on, man. Spit it out.’

  Thanet waited. He was sympathetic to the Sergeant’s predicament, acutely conscious of the conflict raging in his mind, but he could say no more. The issue had been brought out into the open and if Lineham still chose not to confide in him there was nothing he could do about it.

  Lineham was staring down at his hands, picking away at a piece of loose skin alongside the thumbnail of his right hand. The silence stretched out and Thanet was just beginning to think his appeal had failed when the Sergeant stirred.

  ‘Louise wants me to leave the force,’ he muttered. He glanced briefly at Thanet’s blank face, then down at his hands again.

  Thanet was first astounded and then, as the shock receded, furiously angry with Lineham’s wife. His lips tightened as if to contain the spate of words which threatened to tumble out. Here was a minefield and he would have to tread carefully indeed.

  ‘I see.’

  Lineham glanced at him again, assessingly this time.

  With an effort, Thanet kept his voice non-committal. ‘May I ask why?’

  Lineham shrugged, grimaced. ‘The usual reasons, I imagine. Long, unpredictable, anti-social hours … But mainly, I think, the fact that the prospects are poor.’

  I might have guessed, of course, thought Thanet. He had always suspected Louise of being ambitious. A couple of years back Lineham had sought promotion to Inspector. Thanet hadn’t been surprised when he failed to get it. Lineham was an excellent second-in-command, but had always lacked that extra edge which would lift him above the rank of Sergeant. Thanet had thought at the time that it had been Louise who had pushed Lineham into applying, and he had sympathised with the demoralising effect the failure had had upon Lineham, privately approved the Sergeant’s decision not to try again. It was obvious that Louise, balked at having one avenue closed, had determined upon another.