Frozen Charlotte

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Sorry you’ve had a bit of a wasted journey – all this way.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alex said, making no move to leave.

  The couple exchanged a swift glance, more disturbed by Alex’s lack of movement than he would have expected.

  ‘Did you notice any smell up there ever?’

  Mark Sullivan had pointed out that because the child’s body had desiccated rather than decayed there would in all probability have been no smell, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  Oddly enough the Godfreys didn’t seem to know how to answer the question. Simple enough, Alex thought. Yes or no.

  Instead Vince asked something, ‘How long do you think the body had been there?’

  Again Alex was deliberately vague. ‘It’s hard to say. Somewhere around the time that you bought the property. Which is eight or nine years ago. By the way which estate agents did you use?’

  Again the Godfreys looked at each other. Gethin Roberts gave his boss a quick, puzzled look but Randall’s face was impassive. Petula frowned and nibbled her finger. Then her husband tapped the side of his head. He had seen the light. Remembered. ‘Victor Plumley,’ he said. ‘Quite a small estate agents in Grope Lane in the old part of town. Love that name.’ He leered. ‘Grope Lane. Conjures up all sorts of naughty images.’

  His wife gave him a frosty look but then the coffee arrived with some tiny petit fours which Gethin Roberts eyed greedily. He was working up quite an appetite. It was all set out very nicely by Graciela but Petula Godfrey wasn’t pleased. ‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you?’

  ‘ Lo siento ,’ the girl whispered.

  ‘And speak in bloody English, will you?’

  ‘ Si .’

  They waited while the coffee was poured and handed around by Graciela. Alex waited until she had left the room before continuing the questioning.

  ‘The lady you bought the house from,’ he enquired delicately.

  Vince gave a hollow guffaw. ‘I can’t see her doing much,’ he said. ‘When we bought number 41 she went to live with her son and daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere in Birmingham, I think. Goodness. She was well into her eighties. Half demented from what I saw of her. The son and daughter-in-law were always there when we viewed. They were the ones who dealt with us rather than her. The place was quite rundown. She hardly used the upstairs. I suppose…’ He thought for a minute. ‘There was a bit of a fusty smell around the place but I just put that down to an old lady living there.’

  ‘I see,’ Alex said aware that it was a very neat answer.

  ‘Mr Godfrey,’ he said, ‘I wonder if it would be possible to have a quick word with you – alone.’ He gave a swift glance at Petula who was lighting up another cigarette and took no notice.

  ‘Sure,’ Godfrey said. ‘Shall we go into my study?’

  Leaving Roberts to be entertained by Petula, Randall was led out of the conservatory into a large hallway and then through an archway into a dark room at the back of the house. The windows had grills over them, he noticed, and wondered why. Was Godfrey worried about intruders? There was a huge desk in the centre of the room with a computer and other paraphernalia scattered over the top.

  ‘Sanctum,’ Godfrey said ‘I don’t let Pet or Graciela in here. This is my place.’ As though to emphasize the point he banged the door shut and sat behind the desk. Alex took a leather armchair.

  ‘I can guess what you want to ask me,’ Vince said. ‘And the answer is yes. I haven’t exactly been a good little boy throughout our marriage but there’s never ever been anyone serious. Pet knows that. She’s the only one for me but when these women make a play for you.’ He gave a cynical grimace. ‘Women like money,’ he said, sharing the information with Randall. ‘Especially the young gorgeous-looking ones. They think they only have to stick with you for a couple of years and if they get fed up with you they can scarper and take a couple of million with them without having you hanging round their greedy little necks. Not bloody likely, inspector.’ He examined his fingernails closely. ‘I can honestly say, Pet’s the one for me. And she knows it.’ His face clouded. ‘She does like to get her own way though. That’s the only thing I can say against her. If she sets her heart on something, that’s it.’

  Alex nodded. The words seemed logical and sounded honest and Petula Godfrey had appeared like that to him. A realist. But at one point when Vince Godfrey had been speaking there had passed over his face a look of intense pain. At some point in his life, for all his bravado, some woman had hurt this man.

  There was a moment’s silence between the two men. Randall was watching Godfrey’s face, searching, waiting for some other clue. But the man’s face was wooden now.

  He broke the silence.

  ‘Was there anything else, inspector?’

  ‘No, Mr Godfrey. That’s fine.’

  ‘You know. I’ve been thinking. The tank. It was already boxed in. I can remember now. I never touched it. I thought if it needed replacing I’d take it apart then. Maybe put a new one in. Otherwise – well to be truthful I was getting a bit fed up with doing the place up. Know what I mean?’ he gave a bland, pleasant smile.

  Alex nodded. ‘OK,’ he said carefully. ‘Thanks very much. We’ll be going now.’

  The relief in the man’s face was tangible but Alex reflected as they made their way back to the conservatory, that Vince was the sort of man who was probably always nervous around the police. A man like that who had made this amount of money was practically never completely above board. There was almost certainly a guilty secret lurking somewhere beneath the jaunty manner but it might have nothing to do with the case at all.

  Just as they reached the doorway to the conservatory Vince Godfrey turned to face Alex. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘This is rather upsetting for my wife.’ He hesitated. ‘Go easy on her.’

  Alex Randall didn’t reply.

  Gethin Roberts looked relieved to see them return. He gave Randall a wry smile.

  ‘One more question,’ Alex said, ‘before we go. Does the name Poppy mean anything to you?’

  Both Godfreys looked completely blank.

  ‘OK then,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all. Thank you both very much for your cooperation.’ He shook hands with each in turn. ‘If I have any more questions I shall telephone.’

  He had the impression that Vince Godfrey would have liked to say something more but nothing was said and they climbed back into the car ready for the journey back to the hotel. The sun had, at last, come out and to the winter-weary pair it felt almost warm.

  Alex rolled down the car window and took a deep breath in. ‘What say we stop at one of these lovely roadside inns and have some lunch?’

  Gethin Roberts felt his spirits soar.

  Martha was even in a temper deciding what to wear. She didn’t want to play mediator between her friend’s widower and his sugar babe. She felt middle-aged and rejected outfit after outfit. In the end she elected for jeans, high-heeled boots and a turquoise top, over which she knotted a tight-fitting turquoise cardigan. She dumbed down her make-up, brushed back her hair hard, almost seeing Vernon Grubb, her macho hairdresser, wincing as she did so. He was always telling her off for not treating her hair with the respect to which it was due. Sometimes she thought he should have opted for professional rugby where he could have taken his aggression out on the opposing side rather than women in their middle years whom he bullied mercilessly about their hair.

  They met at Richmond’s, a newly opened bistro in the town. Neutral ground. Martha was surprised at Simon’s choice. He was more likely to eat in one of the many ancient restaurants or coffee houses which sprinkled this medieval town than here. It was ultra modern, spanking white with echoing marble floors and a long counter where you queued for food. It was too bright white, not the sort of place Simon would ever have chosen for himself. Then as she sat down and looked around her she felt pity. It was peopled with earnest and self-conscious teenagers. Simon would feel like a fish out o
f water. She picked up a menu. Nouvelle cuisine, no more than twenty calories a portion. Lots of rocket and basil. She waited for an anxious twenty minutes worrying that she had come to the wrong place. She was on the verge of ringing his mobile phone when he arrived. And again this was unlike Simon. He was a stickler for time. Never late.

  He spotted her straight away and waved. His clothes too were different. A leather jacket, chinos, an open-necked yellow shirt. Not the sober-suited man she knew. In fact she realized that she didn’t know this man. On his arm clung a girl. Martha couldn’t have called her anything else. She was not a woman but a girl with long straight blonde hair and a fringe, which she had to distractingly blink out of her large cornflower blue eyes every few minutes. She was slim to the point of emaciation and looked vulnerable in tight jeans, high-heeled boots, an anorak with a brown fur collar, little make-up and beautifully manicured long nails.

  ‘Sorry we’re late.’ Simon bent and kissed her cheek. ‘We couldn’t find anywhere to park and had to hoof it through the town. Not easy with Chrissi’s heels.’

  ‘Martha,’ he said unnecessarily and with a flourish, ‘this is Chrissi.’

  Chrissi smiled, her eyes holding an expression of mute appeal. Shocked, Martha realized the girl desperately wanted her to like her, approve of her. Why? What on earth did she matter? She was merely a friend of Simon’s dead wife and here to mediate between Simon’s daughters and this ‘child’.

  But there was no doubt about it, Christabel did want Martha to like her.

  So her pity swung from Simon, who was trying to pretend he was thirty years younger than he was, to a girl who must know that all his friends, family and acquaintances and in particular his two very bright, very energetic and very opinionated daughters, would disapprove of this relationship.

  Martha held out her hand. ‘Hello, Christabel,’ she said. ‘Do most people call you that or do they call you Chrissi?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Either.’ She sat down. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said in a breathless whisper. Then with a loving look at Simon she added unnecessarily, ‘From Simon.’

  ‘Always a bit worrying,’ Martha said brightly. ‘Shall we get some food?

  ‘You two choose,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  Great, she thought. Give us a chance to get to know each other. And what if I don’t want to?

  Chrissi watched Simon practically all the time he queued and bought the food. Martha limited her questions to ones she could comfortably address to a profile. Where had they met? At work – she was his (cliché, cliché) secretary. She lived with her mother and brother. (She didn’t mention the father). They ‘really, really’ liked Simon. Wasn’t he handsome?

  Errm.

  He didn’t look his age, did he?

  Errm.

  Simon returned.

  As she’d suspected, even with the nouvelle cuisine that was on offer Chrissi didn’t eat real food, merely played with bits around her plate, nibbling prettily as a rabbit on her rocket. And she let Simon lead the conversation.

  ‘How’s Sam doing?’ he asked heartily.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘At least he’s off the injury list and back playing. He might – just might – be coming home and playing for Stoke – on a lend,’ she added, explaining to Chrissi. ‘He’s a footballer,’ she said, ‘with the Liverpool Academy. He’s almost fifteen. One of a twin.’ Then she gave Simon a bright look which was meant to put him at his ease because he looked so terribly uncomfortable. ‘You haven’t heard the best. Sukey has decided she wants to become an actress.’

  ‘Goodness.’ He looked startled. ‘Little Suks? What on earth would Martin have said, I wonder?’

  ‘He was always one to let his children choose their own path.’

  ‘Ye-es. But acting.’

  The conversation stopped and she felt suddenly cross. What right did Simon have to drag her into this uncomfortable and untenable position? He should sort this out himself with his daughters. Not bring her in as mediator, no doubt to plead this child’s cause.

  Chrissi spoke. ‘You were a friend of Simon’s first wife?’ She lifted her eyes to Martha’s, beseeching, Make this easier for me, please?

  ‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘You haven’t met Armenia and Jocasta yet?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We’re having lunch together. We hoped -’ she put her hand in Simon’s – ‘that you would come along too. It would make it easier for me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Martha risked a glance at Simon. He was looking away, frowning and she thought she could read his mind.

  This was not going to work. He knew it and she knew it too.

  But then Chrissi swallowed a mouthful of salad and gulped. ‘You must be wondering what Evelyn would have thought of this,’ she said, putting her hand in Simon’s.

  ‘Evelyn isn’t alive,’ Martha said quietly. ‘If she was you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

  The blue eyes met hers with some understanding and Martha felt relief that she had spoken what had been in her mind from the beginning of lunch when she had recognized the incongruity of this relationship.

  ‘I’m dreading tomorrow,’ Chrissi said miserably. ‘I know Simon’s daughters won’t like me.’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘They’re grown women,’ Martha said firmly. ‘They must adjust.’

  Simon’s arm stole around Chrissi’s thin shoulders. ‘Take heart, my darling,’ he said quietly. ‘Be brave.’

  Chrissi was not the only one dreading tomorrow.

  The rest of the lunch was equally perfunctory and Martha left the soulless restaurant at three.

  Depressed and a little tired she decided to walk back down to the car park, towards the English Bridge, passing Finton Cley’s antiques shop halfway down Wyle Cop. She glanced in the window and had a shock.

  It sported a huge sign. ‘Meet Martha Gunn’. Below it was a female Toby jug with the three plumes of the Prince of Wales on her hat.

  Finton had mocked her before about her name. For ages she had not understood why. One day she had asked him. ‘Why do you always smirk when you say my name?’

  He’d looked smug, a public schoolboy who had a secret. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lived all your life and don’t know the significance of your name? Your parents never told you?’

  She’d shaken her head. ‘They might not have known either.’

  ‘Well that would be a coincidence.’

  She’d waited, knowing he would tell her. ‘She was a Brighton bathing attendant,’ he’d said finally, ‘in the early nineteenth century and reputed to have attended the Prince Regent. One version of events has her actually throwing him into the sea. A risky thing. Look.’ He’d shown her the three feathers on her hat.

  Martha looked through the window. And now here was the original Martha Gunn herself.

  She pushed open the door. Cley was sitting down, reading a book. Although the shop bell jangled he did not look up but continued reading. She cleared her throat. He inserted a bookmark, closed the book and finally turned round. ‘Martha,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Somehow I thought that little jug would tempt even you inside.’ He stood up. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. You?’

  He looked at her searchingly. ‘You seem a bit… on edge.’

  ‘It’s been a difficult day,’ she said. ‘And I expect more of the same tomorrow.’

  She smiled and walked across to the window, picking the Martha Gunn jug up. It had a price tag of £1,800 on it. ‘An expensive lady,’ she said.

  ‘I can manage a small reduction,’ Cley said smoothly, playing the antiques dealer to perfection.

  She turned. ‘How much of a reduction?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether you understand.’

  She stared at him. He was a charismatic character, with long, curling hair, too long for current fashion, one pirate earring swinging against his ear lobe. He was in his early thirties and
had a very public school accent. He puzzled her, seeming to always have a secret message. She had thought it was simply her name but now she realized there was more to it than just that. Still holding the jug she sat down. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games, Finton,’ she asked softly. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Message for Martha,’ she said.

  He eyed her for a moment as though wondering. ‘Why don’t I stop playing games,’ he repeated softly. ‘Why don’t I? Why don’t I tell you the truth, Martha? I’ll tell you why, shall I?’

  She waited, starting to see things more clearly now, as though frosted glass had suddenly become clear.

  When he spoke again it was both soft and hard. ‘You like stories, Martha Gunn?’

  He drew in a deep breath. ‘So why don’t you sit down? Have a cup of tea and listen to the story I have to tell.’

  He began. ‘My father’s name was William. William Cley.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. And yet…’ She paused. ‘I have heard it before but I don’t know in what connection.’ She hazarded a guess. ‘Work?’

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ Cley said. ‘The name means practically nothing to you and yet you virtually destroyed his family.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My father died twelve years ago. Unfortunately he had left a note stating his intention.’ Cley met her eyes without flinching. ‘His life insurance specifically excluded suicide so my mother and sister were left without any money. I had been at public school so of course I had to leave and was bullied fairly mercilessly at state school for my posh accent and eccentric clothes. My mother, you may be interested to know, went to pieces. She’s dead now and my sister became very depressed and an alcoholic. There was no money for me to go to university. I could have become a lawyer or a doctor, just like you, but instead I had to support my family, both financially and mentally. That was what happened to William Cley’s family after you brought in a verdict of suicide, Martha Gunn.’ Then quite suddenly he erupted. ‘Why didn’t you simply say accidental death?’