She heard the stamp of her husband’s feet and a shuffling in the back porch which indicated he was taking off his boots. She moved away from the wall, tidying her hair and straightening her apron in automatic movements, and went to the cooker where she took the lid off a saucepan and peered into it. The sight which met her wasn’t encouraging. The potatoes had boiled dry and begun to stick to the bottom of the pan. She gave it a vigorous shake and dislodged them. Another minute or two and they would have burned.
The back door opened. Stebbings ducked his head and entered.
‘You’re late,’ she observed from the stove.
‘Of course I’m late! You heard what happened? I found her. The police kept asking me the same damn-fool questions over and over again. If that wasn’t enough, I had to drive right across the county, didn’t I? To get rid of that damn bird, Mr Jenner’s orders. I felt like wringing its neck.’
‘You didn’t?’ she asked, looking up with a frightened face. ‘Mrs Jenner wouldn’t like that.’
‘Mrs Jenner wouldn’t know, would she? But I didn’t, though I swear if it comes back again I will. I took it to another of those wildlife parks. They reckoned they can keep it until the next time a flock of Canada geese comes over. They’ve got a big pen where they put the injured birds and it’s in there. They get the flocks in from time to time. They didn’t think it would be long.’ Stebbings sat at the table and asked, ‘What’s for my tea, then?’
‘I made a meat pie, but I expect it’s dried out now. My potatoes have nearly boiled away.’
‘I should’ve phoned you, I suppose,’ said her husband. ‘But it clear slipped my mind with all that’s happened today. One bloody thing after another and no idea what’s going to happen next! I don’t want another day like it.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ His failure to let her know he’d be late wasn’t the reason for the spoilt meal. She hadn’t been able to keep her mind off the awful news. With her hands encased in padded oven mitts she stooped to take the pie from the oven and carried it over to the table where she set it on a wooden stand.
‘So what’s up with you, then?’ Stebbings asked, watching her.
‘Should there be anything wrong with me?’ she retorted.
‘Face as long as a fiddle. Just because the pie is burnt, is it?’
‘I’m upset, aren’t I? Just like you!’ She sank down on the nearest chair and divested her hands of the mitts. ‘I’m afraid, too, Harry.’ The confession gained her no sympathy.
‘What have you got to be frightened about?’ he demanded.
‘How can you ask? All this business, the poor young lady … Liz Whittle came down and told me what the police were doing. She’s terrible distressed. I’d seen all the police cars going up there earlier, of course. I knew it had to be something bad.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with us,’ he growled. ‘I’ve done my part, pulling her out of the lake and going up to the house to tell them about it. Just forget about it now, can’t you? It’s what I want to do.’
‘It could affect us, though, couldn’t it?’ she persisted and began to tinker with the knife and fork set before her, moving them away from the plate, bringing them closer. ‘Mr Jenner might take against living here now his daughter’s died here like that, so horribly. If he sells up, what’ll happen to us?’
‘I’ll work for the next owner, won’t I? It was old Mr Gray who took me on first and he dropped dead not eighteen month after, but Mr Jenner, when he bought the place, he wanted me to stay.’
‘Another new owner still might not want you. You don’t know who’d buy. It might be some company that would turn the place into something like a, like a retirement home or a business centre. They might contract the upkeep of the grounds out to one of these firms that goes round doing that sort of thing.’
Her husband’s fist came crashing down on the table top, making all the cutlery jump. The salt cellar fell over and the grains spilled on the table. His wife gave a little cry and hastened to scrape up a pinch of salt and throw it over her left shoulder.
‘What are you doing that for? That’s bloody superstition, that is!’
‘It’s bad luck, Harry, to spill the salt. And bad luck is what’s coming to us. It’s here already with the young lady drowning and if Mr Jenner decides to up and leave—’
‘For crying out loud, woman! Why worry about something like that before it happens? Why should he want to leave the place?’ Stebbings howled in exasperation.
‘His wife might want to.’
‘It’s always the same with you women,’ he grumbled. ‘If one argument doesn’t work, you find another. The girl was Mr Jenner’s daughter, not his wife’s.’
‘Mrs Jenner will still be terribly upset, she must be! Anyway, she’s been not too happy these last few weeks, even before this awful thing happened. Perhaps she’s tired of living out here and got a fancy to go and live in town? I dare say it’s a bit quiet for her here. This death, well, it could decide her.’
He stared at her fiercely. ‘Who told you that? That Mrs Jenner’s been moping?’
‘Liz Whittle. She says Mrs Jenner’s been acting odd, well, different. She’s been on edge like her nerves were bad.’
Stebbings twisted his huge knotted hands together and scowled. ‘There could be any reason for that.You don’t want to go gossiping with Liz Whittle.’ He straightened up and dismissed the matter. ‘I want my tea. Where’s Darren?’
‘He’s up in the attic in his work room. I’ll go and call him.’
‘I’ll go,’ Stebbings said, getting up. ‘Just you get those spuds on the table.’
He climbed the narrow stairs. At the landing he stopped and looked up. The recessed hatch in the ceiling was closed but a ladder propped against the wooden frame showed how someone might get up into the roof space.
‘Darren!’ Stebbings called up. ‘Your mum’s got your tea on the table. Come on down here!’
There was a sound of movement above his head. Footsteps caused wooden boards to creak.
‘I’m coming!’ a voice called.
Stebbings made to turn away but then stopped, chewed his lower lip in thought and climbed a couple of rungs to reach up his long arms and raise the hatch. He shifted it to one side and hauled himself up into the attic.
It had been converted into extra living space. His son was sitting there in front of a flickering computer screen. On the table beside it, an ink-jet printer whirred and delivered up coloured prints in a steady progression. On the far side of the room, a table was laden with dusty jars of chemicals and basins. But if Darren had once made a foray into traditional photographic development, he’d apparently abandoned it in favour of technology. At this father’s appearance Darren started guiltily and flung a nervous look over his shoulder. Stebbings looked round him with disgust.
‘It’s about time you stopped messing with this lot!’ Stebbings pointed at the computer and then at the printer. ‘Look at the money you’ve spent on that. And that fancy camera. Gadgets, that’s what they all are, just fashionable toys. A waste of good cash. You youngsters, you’ve got more money than sense.’
‘It’s going to be my career!’ his son said defiantly. ‘I earned the money to pay for all this myself. It’s an investment.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. How are you going to earn any kind of a living doing this? You’ll need to get a proper job.’
‘I can make this pay,’ Darren said obstinately.
‘I’ll believe that when I see it!’ was the paternal retort.
‘Well, just you wait then, and you will see it!’ Darren told him. ‘There’s good money to be had. Magazines and newspapers, they’ll pay for a good pic!’
‘Pic? What the hell’s a pic? Don’t tell me, I know. Listen to me, boy, where do you think you’re going to get these snaps that the press are going to pay you so much for?’
‘You have to find out where celebrities are. Then you wait, catch them unawares.’
‘I never heard anyt
hing so daft in all my life. I think there’s something wrong with your brain!’ Stebbings suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the glossy prints as it emerged from the machine.
‘Hey, leave that!’ Darren darted forward to rescue it but his father put out a long arm and pushed him back roughly. Darren stumbled and grabbed at the computer bench to steady himself. ‘Leave that, Dad, please,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s not dried off and you’ll get fingerprints all over it.’
‘Just want to see your work!’ Stebbings said. ‘Since it seems it’s going to earn you a fortune!’ He studied the print and then picked up the others, studying them one by one, his expression growing darker. Finally he held up one of the sheets. ‘Where did you get this? And the others like it?’
At the quiet menace in his father’s voice, Darren blanched, but managed to reply with a show of confidence. ‘I took them.’
‘I know you bloody took them!’ his father shouted. ‘When?’
‘Friday, Friday evening,’ Darren muttered, avoiding his father’s eye.
‘Did she know?’
‘No, Dad, honestly. I – I was practising, you know, pretending I was snapping a celebrity. She wasn’t a celebrity but she was the nearest I could get to it. I watched her and I reckon I managed some good pics. Of course she didn’t know. The whole point was that she didn’t see me. She was only interested in the horses and I was over behind the trees. Don’t damage them, Dad, please! Don’t go putting your fingerprints all over them or creasing them up! I’ll have to print them again. That photo-quality glossy paper is expensive!’
‘I always thought you didn’t have much sense,’ his father said, breathing heavily. ‘But now I know you’re plain stupid!’ In a sudden movement he tore the photograph in two.
‘No!’ Darren flung himself at his father and tried to wrest the remaining photographs from him but in vain. He was thrust back again and this time tripped and sprawled on the floor.
‘Where’s the film?’ Stebbings demanded. ‘Come on, hand it over!’
Darren scrambled to his feet and whimpered, ‘There’s no film, it’s a digital camera! It’s some of my best work, Dad! Don’t destroy it!’
‘And who are you going to show it to, eh? If anyone sees these you know where you’ll end up? In a prison cell, that’s where! What were you going to do with them, anyway?’
‘Nothing, just keep them. Dad, what are you going to do with them?’ Darren’s voice trembled. He was near to tears.
‘Do? Burn them. And you think yourself lucky that I’m doing it! Are there any more?’
Darren whispered, ‘No.’
Stebbings pointed at the camera. ‘There’s none in that thing?’
Fatally, Darren hesitated.
‘What’s it got, then, if it’s got no film?’
‘It’s got a memory card,’ Darren muttered.
‘Then let’s be having it!’
Darren slipped out the little card and handed it to his father, who stared at it mistrustfully. ‘You’d better be telling me the truth about this damn thing.’ Stebbings was struck by a thought. ‘Your mum seen these?’
Darren shook his head.
‘Then we don’t tell her, right? We don’t tell anyone!’
Easter Sunday morning. The bells were ringing out from Bamford’s churches. The sky was still overcast although there were signs the sun might break through later. But it was still cool and people who, only days earlier, had worn light spring clothes hurried to church in winter wool jackets. Jess Campbell, in the cramped little flat she was renting, was in the middle of a long and difficult telephone conversation with her mother.
‘Yes, Mum, I know I said I’d come down on Easter Day while Simon’s home and have lunch with you, but I can’t. I’m on duty. There’s been a serious incident.’
‘But I wanted us all to be together!’ Her mother’s voice was plaintive. ‘It’s special, and not only because it’s Easter. Simon’s hardly ever in the country these days.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Jess drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not like I haven’t seen Simon. He was here Thursday and all Friday morning. I’m really sorry, Mum, but I just can’t come.’
‘What kind of incident?’ Mrs Campbell was asking, her voice suspicious. ‘What’s so serious you’ve got to be working over a holiday?’
‘It’s a – a sudden death. It might be linked to something else. Look, Mum, police work is like that. Things happen. We have to deal with them. They just don’t always happen at convenient times.’
‘I know it’s important, your work,’ her mother said. ‘But you never seem to have any free time. We hardly see you. I keep wishing that you’d get a job nearer home.’
‘This is a good move for me, Mum. I’ve got real responsibility here and if I can make a go of it, don’t blot my copybook, well, that’s got to be good, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, dear, of course it is,’ said her mother in that way which meant she hadn’t a clue what Jess was talking about.
When she put down the receiver Jess was surprised at the strength of the regret she felt.
She went to the window and threw it open. The flat was in a small block which had been built on the site of a former grain merchant’s store. It overlooked a dull road of crumbling Victorian houses, most of which seemed to be in multiple occupation, if the number of dustbins cluttering the tiny neglected forecourts was anything to go by. At least the flat, although dimensionally designed to accommodate munchkins, offered privacy of a sort, far better than sharing a house. But it wasn’t home any more than any rented accommodation could feel like home, not a true home. There was always the knowledge that it was somebody else’s really.
Jess had always rented, for convenience’s sake. But she knew she ought to buy. Getting on the property ladder, that was what it was called. Now she’d come to Bamford she’d thought more seriously about it than ever before, even to the extent of looking in estate agents’ windows. But it wouldn’t be easy. Any decent place carried a hefty price tag. She didn’t really want another flat. She fancied a small house or cottage. Not too much garden, though, because she had no time for that. Not stuck out in the countryside, either, but near enough to shops to be able to scurry out for a pint of milk or a takeaway meal when necessary, because cooking was another thing she didn’t have time for.
She moved back into the flat and gazed round her with increasing dissatisfaction. It had the look of a place which had been furnished with a view to renting it out. Every stick of furniture was cheap and some of it second-hand. The coffee table was marked with rings from the drinks glasses of previous tenants. There was an unsightly stain on the cord carpet which suggested someone had had an accident with a curry. Perhaps this thought of food prompted her to go out to the kitchen, a mere cupboard of a place in which it was just possible to turn round. She opened the fridge. It contained some butter, a pack of cheese and half a bottle of white wine which she’d opened the previous evening. When you sat alone before the television of an evening, drinking wine and watching made-for-TV films which had obviously rolled off the conveyor belt of some production company, put together from assembled parts like so many kit cars, then you knew your private life wasn’t a life. It was an existence! The two days of companionship afforded her by her brother’s visit had only served to underline the loneliness. Jess slammed the fridge door shut. She’d have to stop off somewhere and pick up some groceries, bacon and eggs. She couldn’t go on living on takeaways. Her rubbish bin was crammed with little foil cartons. Her diet was probably nutritionally unsound. She was becoming deskilled in kitchen tasks to an extent which would shock her mother.
That brought back the memory of the recent phone conversation. Of course she wanted to be there with them. She could imagine her family, what they might be doing. They’d all been to church, her mother had said. The meal was cooking. Jess could almost smell it in imagination, each of the savoury aromas wafting from the kitchen. It would probably be roast beef. Or it might be chicken. No, Simon
was there so her mother would have bought a nice piece of beef. The best china would have been brought out for the occasion. Of course Jess wanted to be sitting there with them to eat it. But she couldn’t and that was that. She was twenty-nine and far too old to be suffering homesickness! Snap out of it, she told herself sternly.
To dismiss the images, she first ate two of the chocolate creme eggs her brother had left for her in advance of the festival, then got in the car and drove over to Regional HQ.That had a deserted air about it; far fewer people than usual could be seen around the place, just the duty team looking glum because they had to work and everyone else was enjoying the Easter holiday. The office they’d given Jess had previously belonged to Inspector Pearce whom she’d never met but of whom she’d heard so much. Pearce had cleared out his belongings but had missed one, a snapshot of a pretty girl holding a puppy. That must be either his girlfriend or his wife, she’d thought when she’d found it in the drawer. She had put it in an envelope, meaning to send it on to him, but hadn’t yet done so. The only other thing he’d left behind was a depressed-looking dusty cactus with a spider living in the heart of it. Jess had shaken out the spider and was doing her best to revive the plant but didn’t hold out much hope for it. It had the look of a cactus with a death wish. Jess collected a cup of coffee from the dispenser to wash away the cloying sweetness of the eggs, and settled down to work.
The annoying thing in all investigations was the time-consuming composing of reports and despite several other things she wanted to be doing, she had to complete her report on Saturday’s events. To ensure accuracy she opened up the notebook in which she kept a virtually minute-by-minute account of her actions on Saturday, her thoughts and her reasoning. She frowned now over her note on the discovery of the partly obliterated tyre mark. Sergeant Ginny Holding, who had been given the job of checking it against all the vehicles owned by the Jenner family and anyone resident at the house at the time or visiting, was out there somewhere even now about this task. Her remit included the dead woman’s car, a blue Volkswagen Golf. The visitors’ cars, of course, included Markby’s own. He’d understand that his tyres would have to be checked against the imprint, along with all the rest. Any other vehicle used on the estate would be checked as well. She hoped to have Holding’s report by Monday afternoon.
Ann Granger Page 9
