by Jane Adams
At last he spoke. ‘Cassie claims now that her cousin died way back then. Yes?’
Simon nodded.
‘Which implies she must have witnessed her murder?’
Again, Simon nodded.
‘So, the body. Did she say where the body was?’
Simon hesitated this time, looked to Anna for support. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘But from the way she was talking it was where you found the skeleton.’
Mike nodded slowly. Well, the hidey hole could be searched again. No problems there.
‘There was something else really strange,’ Simon went on. ‘Right from when we heard about the body she kept saying that it wasn’t Suzie.’
‘She knew that?’
Simon nodded. ‘Absolutely adamant,’ he said.
Mike thought carefully. Cassie and her cousin had played often on the Greenway, knew the hidey hole, played there. What if they’d found the skeleton all that time ago? It hadn’t been buried deep, the experts said the grave was no more than a hurriedly made scrape in the ground. It didn’t seem right somehow. Surely, finding something like that when you are ten or twelve years old would be terrifying? Something to run home to safety from and cry to your mother about?
Or would it? Children have a strange sense of honour, of logic. What if they were more afraid of something else? Or what if Cassie hadn’t realized just what the bones were until the skeleton had been unearthed? No, surely that didn’t make sense. Even if she’d not known as a child that these were human remains, wouldn’t she have realized as she grew older and thought to tell someone about their childhood find?
He shook his head again. No, the last thing Cassie Maltham had wanted was anything that could make it necessary for her to come back here. If Dr Lucas’s experiments were to be believed, Cassie had blocked all memory of the hidey hole from her mind until now.
So. What then?
Anna had returned to the table and was pouring the tea. ‘We talked it over,’ she said, ‘after Cassie and Fergus had gone. We think she did see something, maybe even Suzie being killed, that scared her so much she had to forget about it.’
Simon nodded. ‘We think they must have known about the skeleton too. I mean, they played there. Maybe they found it.’
Mike sipped his tea in silence. Something at the back of his mind told him that, finally, he was on the right lines. That in some way, Suzanne Ashmore’s death (if she was dead, he reminded himself, he had that one to prove yet) was linked to the children’s knowledge of the skeleton. Had someone found out that they knew? Frightened them into silence then tried to make certain by killing Suzie?
Then why spare Cassie’s life?
He reminded himself abruptly that this was the Ashmore case he was discussing with himself That he then had to take account of the Cassidy abduction and the woman whose body they’d found on the hill.
Where was the link? Was Sara Jane telling the truth about remembering nothing?
And the woman — her injuries had been horrifying and had the look of deliberate and premeditated infliction. How did that fit in?
Mike finished his tea, suddenly aware that the Thomas’s were watching him closely. He rose to go.
‘I’m meeting Doctor Lucas tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll all know more by then.’ He paused, looking at Simon and Anna, strain showing on their faces, reminding him of just how tired he was himself.
‘Meantime,’ he said, ‘try and get some sleep.’
Simon laughed, a sharp uneasy sound. ‘Just try,’ Mike said and left them, still sitting at the table staring miserably into cups of cold tea.
Outside the wind had risen, the rather wan half-moon illuminated the feathered edges of rapidly scudding clouds. Glancing out over the headland Mike could glimpse the sea, denser black against the darkness of the night sky. It was well after ten, but even so, dark early for the time of year. There should still be some evening grey in the clouds, perhaps even a touch of red close to the horizon. He shrugged. No one seemed to have informed the night that it had come a little too early.
Chapter 19
The drive out to Embury’s had given John Tynan plenty of time for thought and to consider if he really was chasing wild geese. He was growing increasingly worried about Mike, liked the man, thought him a good policeman and was concerned that the investigation seemed to be taking hold of him in much the same way the Ashmore case had caught Tynan himself.
Prior to Suzie Ashmore’s disappearance, he’d been tipped for promotion, been the divisional go-getter. After — he was lucky not to have ended up on permanent traffic duty. He felt real reluctance to maybe seeing Mike go the same way, especially as, in this case, the child had been found safe.
There was an autumnal tang already in the air, unseasonably early though it might be. Tynan drove with the windows wide open, enjoying the feeling of being just that fraction too cold for comfort. It would, he knew, in the long run simply add to the pleasure of warm sunlight on his arms and back when he got out of the car.
Embury’s place was somewhat off the beaten track; or rather, Tynan thought wryly, that was exactly where it was. It had been a tied cottage not so long ago, and was reachable only by driving along a gated, rut-ridden pretence at a trackway. He could feel his car, like himself, a little past its sell by date, groaning and complaining as its elderly and inadequate suspension strove to cope with the bumps and grooves carved by the passage of tractors.
He could feel his own suspension pleading for reprieve also, was glad when Embury’s tiny cottage came into view.
Embury must have heard the car, was waiting for him on the doorstep. He’d changed little, Tynan reflected. Hair somewhat greyer, perhaps even slightly more sparse on top and an odd wrinkle or two added around the eyes. He stepped forward as John eased himself out of the car, extending a long-fingered bony hand towards him
‘John! This is a pleasant thing. When I got your call I couldn’t quite believe it.’
Embury seemed so genuinely pleased to receive him that Tynan felt a momentary guilt at having not come out here before.
He took the extended hand. ‘You’re right out of the way here.’
Embury nodded. ‘Literally in the middle of nowhere,’ he responded, though it was said cheerfully enough.
‘You live here alone?’
‘No. No as a matter of fact I don’t. I have this rather good arrangement with the farmer who owns this place. I let a couple of the unmarried workers share the biggest room and he keeps my rent down to almost nothing. Truth is, I hardly see them except at meal times. My rooms are at the back and very self-contained so it works out very well.’
He leaned confidentially towards Tynan. ‘I think they get a little uptight about bringing their lady friends back, you know, having to share the house with an ex-vicar, but I do try to keep out of their way. Cough loudly before I come into the kitchen and that sort of thing.’
His eyes were laughing as Tynan turned to glance at him. He’d forgotten much about Embury but the laughter that was never far from the pale blue eyes was something he remembered very distinctly.
‘It’s still a bit out of the way though, isn’t it?’ He had paused, was looking back over the expanse of stubble waiting to be ploughed back. The road he had come in on was, he estimated, about a half mile away. A half mile that would be practically impassable in winter.
They turned now towards the cottage — a dour Victorian brick affair. Solid and utilitarian, not really pretty enough and a little too isolated to attract the tourist market.
Embury made tea and they exchanged polite comments, Tynan pacing the length of the kitchen, gazing first out of one window then the next, then following Embury through to the small room at the back he’d turned into his study.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said. ‘If you can’t find space then just put things on the floor.’
Tynan gingerly moved a pile of books from one of the armchairs and placed them as neatly as he could beside the chair. It looked
, from the state of the room, that year’s worth of visitors had been taking Embury’s advice and stacking things in any available space. Embury excavated a place to sit down, poured the tea which he’d set on a rather precarious looking table between them and then looked invitingly at Tynan.
‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘and what can I do for you?’ Tynan smiled. Directness had always been one of Embury’s traits.
He returned with equal measure. ‘You can tell me about the Cooper family. Young Emma that disappeared and that father of hers. What happened to them?’
Embury smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The other Greenway mystery. Seems to attract them somehow, doesn’t it?’ He paused for a moment as though considering. ‘Some places are like that, you know. It’s as though they call the tragic to them. Almost magnetic in some cases.’ He paused, took a sip of tea. Tynan wondered whether he should prompt him, remembering very well how Embury could become side-tracked and run along quite happily at a complete tangent without ever noticing that he’d changed subjects.
This time he didn’t though. The pale eyes twinkled again. ‘But you don’t want my theories on that,’ he said. ‘The Coopers. Yes, sad case.’ He paused speculatively again. ‘The news reports say you’ve found a body.’
‘Not me,’ Tynan reminded him. ‘But, yes, the remains of a child, been in the ground for quite some time.’
‘Not the Ashmore girl then.’
‘It doesn’t seem likely, but it might be Emma Cooper.’ He looked somewhat apologetic. ‘There’s not a lot I can tell you, I’m afraid. Officially, I’ve no part in this, but I’ve been tagging along.’
‘And being very useful too, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Er, the Coopers?’ Tynan prompted as Embury seemed to be gathering himself for some alternative tirade.
‘Oh, yes. Now where was I?’ Embury settled himself back in his chair and began.
‘William Cooper was a drunkard. Oh, but then you probably know that. But for all that he drank I’m told he was a good stockman, gentle and efficient round anything that had four legs.’ He laughed, a little sadly. ‘Shame of it was, he was no good around anything with less. Treated his family as though they were nothing more than chattels. Always wanted a son, you see, and his wife gave him two daughters. Not that there’s any excuse there, of course.’
‘What happened to her? The wife I mean.’
‘Oh, she died not long after the second one was born. Probably something very avoidable, but you know how it was.’
Tynan nodded sympathetically.
‘Well, for a long time the grandmother, one side or another, his I think, she took care of the little ones, but when the youngest was about five or six he came to get them, said they should be at home helping him out. Of course, you see, they were his children so there wasn’t much anyone could do.’
He took another sip of tea, then, waving the half-full cup dangerously in the air, continued, ‘As it turned out, the youngest, Liza, she didn’t fare too badly. Bright little thing apparently, cottoned on fast that her daddy really wasn’t all that interested in girls and did everything she could to make up for it. Right little tom boy by all accounts. Oh, there’s no doubt, Liza became her father’s favourite. The other one though, Emma, that was a different story.’
Tynan shook his head. ‘I’ve never been able to make that out,’ he said. ‘How someone can love one child and be cruel to the other.’
Embury was gesturing with the teacup again, seemingly impatient with Tynan’s interpretation of events. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it was that at all. It wasn’t that he didn’t love them, just that he lacked the emotional capacities for showing it in any normal way.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Tynan said. ‘From what I understand he was violent when drunk and frequently drunk.’
‘And as frequently remorseful,’ Embury added. ‘Oh, yes, a familiar enough pattern. Then at other times he’d be sober for weeks and months together. Worked hard, lavished everything he had on his children.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Strange how a man can change in that way. It’s no wonder the ancients believed in possession by demons.’
Tynan laughed shortly. ‘I thought your lot still did.’
Embury returned the laugh. ‘Well, let’s just say most of us are pragmatic about it. It makes for a good bit of theological explanation when all else fails.’
‘So,’ Tynan asked, ‘do you think he killed her?’ Embury shook his head slowly. ‘I really wouldn’t like to be the judge of the man. I knew him almost at second-hand, met him only a couple of times. You see, they’d moved out of the parish by the time I took over.’
‘Where did they go to, can you remember off-hand?’
Embury thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘I believe it was out Ancaster way somewhere. I don’t remember exactly where.’
Tynan nodded. Ancaster. It was close to Ancaster that the itinerant woman they’d been looking for had nearly been run over by a car. He asked, ‘So where did you get to meet him then?’
‘Oh,’ Embury said, ‘he came back to the village often enough. Sometimes drunk, sometimes sober. Haunted the Greenway like one of its legendary fey folk. Last place his daughter was seen, you see. I suppose it played on his mind. Later, of course, when Liza went back to live with him, he seemed to settle down, or maybe she just stopped him coming. I don’t know.’
‘Went back?’ Tynan questioned.
‘Yes. When all the trouble blew up Liza was about seven years old. She went back to her grandmother’s while it was being sorted out and stayed there until she turned eighteen or nineteen.’
‘Then back to her father.’
Embury nodded. ‘Presumably she felt some sense of duty to him, I don’t know. She never married, though according to what I’ve heard she was a pretty girl. He wasn’t capable of taking care of himself, that was for sure. His mind went, you know.’ Embury paused, tapped his grey head meaningfully. ‘Everyone said it was the drink, and I don’t suppose that helped, but me, well, call me sentimental if you like, but I think it was grief. It’s because of that I maintain that he loved his daughter. Drove him mad when he thought she was gone.’
He looked sharply at Tynan as though expecting some sort of confirmation. ‘Grief, or maybe guilt,’ Tynan said.
Embury shook his head fondly. ‘That’s the policeman in you talking,’ he said. ‘Suspicious to the last.’
‘Maybe,’ Tynan agreed, ‘but it is a consideration.’ He thought for a moment, then asked, ‘What happened to the daughter, Liza, when her father died? I mean,’ he added, ‘I am presuming that he is dead?’
Embury nodded. ‘Oh, dear, yes,’ he said. ‘Died about nine or ten years ago. Must have hit her hard, Liza. Lived for her father she did.’
‘Did he still visit the Greenway?’ Tynan wanted to know.
‘Oh, yes.’ Embury nodded enthusiastically. ‘Every time he could get away from Liza. Watched him, I suppose, but no one could watch him all the time. He’d go missing, she’d come looking and there he’d be, wandering up and down, looking for Emma.’
Tynan tried not to show the growing excitement he was feeling. This was a link. It had to be. He said as casually as he could, ‘Must have been a frightening sight, some old man, obviously off his head, roaming up and down the pathway like that?’
Embury looked keenly at him as though not certain where Tynan was headed but willing to guess. ‘I suppose it might,’ he responded cautiously, ‘though most of the older folk knew he was harmless enough.’ He paused, looked thoughtfully at Tynan. ‘If you’re thinking of linking him up with the Ashmore girl I feel you’d be doing the dead a great disservice. There was enough said about Cooper in his lifetime. It seems a little distasteful, don’t you think, to try and make him a scapegoat now for something more?’
Tynan frowned. ‘Come now, you know me better than that.’ He paused, smiled encouragingly and prepared himself to ask Mike’s other question, knowing that he was probably in for a long and m
eandering explanation. ‘A place like the Greenway, all the stories there are attached to it. You think there’s any truth in them?’
Embury perked up visibly, much to Tynan’s inner distress. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘some of them undoubtedly have truth on their side. Now what particularly did you want to know?’
* * *
It was several hours later when Tynan finally took his leave and began the drive back to his own cottage. He’d enjoyed the afternoon, for all that he felt he’d learnt nothing very useful after the first half-hour or so. Embury was, when once set in motion, an excellent raconteur with an infectious enthusiasm. Tynan, after his first misgivings had been fascinated by the legends and traditions, not just of the Greenway and Tan’s hill, but which seemed to underpin the history of the entire region.
He let himself in to his home and reached immediately for the telephone. It took time to reach Mike, the desk sergeant had been uncertain as to whether or not he was even in the building. As it turned out he had just returned.
Tynan heard the familiar voice, slightly puzzled, on the other hand.
‘Hello there, Mike, it’s John. Thought it best just to say it was a personal call.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘Just took me by surprise, that’s all. How did it go?’
‘Well. Very well, but there’s too much to tell over the phone. Later?’
‘Yes. That’s fine. But it will be around nine before I’m finished here.’
Tynan paused before asking. He could hear the tiredness but also the suppressed excitement in Mike’s voice.
‘You’ve found something else?’ he asked.
Mike sighed. ‘I had the search of the hidey hole extended. There’s a second body, John, hidden deep under the hedge. It’s only skeletal, of course . . .’
Tynan’s voice sounded cramped, hoarse. ‘Suzie?’ It was little more than a whisper. ‘Suzie. After all this time.’
