A Death Divided

by Clare Francis

  ‘I still don’t understand why Jenna should feel responsible.’

  ‘She never felt responsible - not in that sense,’ Chetwood corrected him, though the distinction rather escaped Joe. ‘What she felt was the guilt of omission. That she’d failed to understand how vulnerable Sam was, how desperate he was to be accepted, to be part of the group, and how far he’d go to prove himself to us. He was very young for his age, you see. Very impressionable.’

  ‘He was staying with you?’

  ‘Yup. Sort of an adoptee. An orphan of the storm.’

  ‘And walking the weir was… important?’

  ‘He must have thought so.’

  After this, Chetwood was motionless, lost in thought, but a tension lingered in the hooded eyes, a hint of darkness.

  ‘So what else did the police want to know?’

  ‘Nothing. Just… about our lives.’

  ‘You and Jenna?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Whether your relationship was okay?’

  ‘Mmm?’ It was a moment before Chetwood tuned in fully.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Did they ask if you were seeing anyone else?’

  ‘They asked, yeah.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said no.’ He added suspiciously, ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone said you still see a lot of Ines, that’s all.’

  Chetwood’s bleary eyes glowered at him. ‘We’re cousins.

  Of course I see her. I see her when I’m in London. We have dinner together. So?’

  ‘There must be a reason the police have mounted this investigation.’

  Chetwood rolled his eyes heavenward in a plea for divine assistance. ‘So - I’m meant to be having an affair with Ines, is that it? And - God, I’m having trouble even beginning to imagine where we go from there -1 drove Jenna to kill herself.

  Is that it?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to guess what the police might be thinking.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a stuff what the police are thinking! I.

  couldn’t be less interested in their sad little investigation.

  Playing detective! Because nothing they do’s going to make the blindest bit of difference, is it? Not a fucking thing!’

  It was this speech that undid him. Leaning forward, he sank his face into his hands. At first Joe thought it was simply tiredness, the effect of no sleep and too much booze, but then he noticed the whiteness of Chetwood’s fingertips where they pressed against his skull, the frantic working of his jaw muscles, and he hesitated, wondering whether to offer inadequate words of comfort or leave him alone while he went to see what the kitchen had to offer. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he didn’t imagine Chetwood had done much better. But just as he was making a move, Chetwood lifted his head.

  ‘At least she didn’t get to see those prats blundering around the house,’ he gasped. ‘She would have hated that. Their clod-hopping bloody feet. Just hated it!’ His voice was thick, his eyes were fierce with unshed tears.

  ‘It doesn’t look as though they did too much damage.’

  ‘Bloody plonkers … bloody plonking about.’

  Attempting to change the subject, Joe said, ‘You built it yourselves?’

  Emerging slowly from his anger, Chetwood rubbed his temples furiously. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Quite a job.’

  ‘Yeah. Came in kit form and we had to hike it up the hill.’

  ‘And no one ever knew you were here?’

  ‘Oh, people knew, sure. People in the valley. But if you mean the authorities - no.’ He snorted, ‘That’ll be next, no doubt. The little Hitlers in the planning department will want to get their thrills by making us take it down again.’

  The us resonated in the silence.

  ‘Why did you vanish so completely?’

  ‘Began as a sort of dream. We camped up here a few times and never wanted to go back,’ he replied in a hazy reminiscent tone, failing to hear the question or deliberately choosing to misunderstand it. ‘It was going to be a summer house, then we decided to go for it big time. Pym and Evan thought it was a great idea. And it was. Best thing we ever did. Water off the hill’ - he angled a finger towards various points of the compass - ‘wood from the trees, solar power off the roof. Only thing we have to bring in is gas for the fridge and the cooker.’ He grunted, ‘You get to talk when there’s no TV, you know. You get to communicate. You get to read all the books you’d never’ve got round to reading in a million years. You…’ He trailed off and his expression dulled.

  ‘I meant more of the name change, the disappearing act?’

  ‘I told the police I had money troubles. That I was on the run from my creditors. Now they think I’m a con man.’

  ‘Why not tell them the truth?’

  Chetwood knocked back the last of his wine. ‘What, that Jenna was convinced she’d killed someone? That she should pay for it? I don’t think so.’

  ‘But she hadn’t - it didn’t mean anything.’

  Chetwood held the second bottle up to the light to check that it was as empty as the first. ‘She was happy up here. That was the truth. I was happy up here. We were … happy.’ With this, he got untidily to his feet and set off for the kitchen.

  After a moment Joe followed and started hunting for food.

  Chetwood found a fresh bottle of wine and paused with a corkscrew clutched in his hand.

  The and Ines - is that what the police are saying?’

  ‘They asked what I knew about her, yes. If you were “close”.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he declared with a heavy sigh, prowling back towards the sofa.

  Joe found cheese, pate and biscuits. As he put the plate and knives down on the low table, Chetwood murmured, ‘Of course I see her. She’s my family. She’s my best friend.’ He stared into the distance, for a while it seemed he wouldn’t go on, then with a ferocious rub of the skin beneath his eyes, a kneading of the flesh that squeezed his eyes alternately into slits and red-rimmed orbs, he forced himself back to life.

  ‘Okay, there was a time when we saw a bit more of each other.

  But that was when Jenna and I were going through a bad patch—’ His head jerked round, he grumbled indignantly, ‘Who the hell told the police about me and Ines, anyway?

  Who’s been talking to them?’

  Joe shrugged.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘This bad patch - it wasn’t recently?’

  ‘No, no. It was way back in the old days, back at Pawsey Farm.’

  Joe waited in silence.

  I; Chetwood looked at him with vague unfocused anger before staring past him to the window or the darkness. ‘Yeah, it was so bad we almost split up. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Sam business … It started when we moved to Pawsey Farm. Jenna liked the country all right, she liked the life, but she didn’t like me being away so much. Well, that wasn’t a circle anyone was going to be able to square, was it? Had to go on my buying trips. Had to do the business. It was my work, for God’s sake. It was what I did. She tried coming with me in the early days, she tried plenty of times, but she couldn’t hack the heat and the dust and the insect life and the lack of hotels.’ He sipped some wine, and when he resumed his voice was harsher. ‘Then she started sounding off about the amount of time I was spending in London. Well, Asif was there - my business partner. And the warehouse. I had to go. But she used to grill me about it. Every detail - where I’d been, when the plane had landed, how long I’d spent with Asi’f - all that stuff.’

  He drew in a sharp breath, his neck bunched in a shudder.

  ‘Incredibly destructive. It got to the point where we were slaying each other on a daily basis and I couldn’t wait to get far, far away, and stay far, far away. While she - well, she wouldn’t give up and she wouldn’t let go. I used to tell her to get back to her singing. Why waste that talent? But she wouldn’t, of course. No chance.’

  ‘Why not?’

 
‘Mmm?’ He focused slowly on Joe. ‘Oh, too scared.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘Scared of failing. Couldn’t deal with it at all.’

  Joe grappled with this idea. ‘But she’d never failed, not in anything important.’

  ‘Oh, yes she had! You never realised - why should you?

  She never got the Welsh Opera job. She couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone. Silly - I mean silly not to tell anyone. She was short-listed or whatever it was, they told her to come back and try again, but she never did.’

  ‘I’d no idea.’

  ‘That was how she came to end up with me, of course.

  Nowhere else to turn.’ The thought didn’t seem to displease him too much because his lugubrious eyes gleamed a little, and he gave the ghost of a smile.

  ‘So…’ He fiddled with his wine-glass, then lumbered to his feet to open the doors of the stove and adjust the vents.

  ‘So…’ Making for his seat again, he misjudged the distance or the speed and sat down again with an unexpected roll to one side, and thrust out a hand to save himself. ‘Shit…’ he murmured, as though he’d only just realised how much he’d had to drink. ‘Shit…’ He went through an exercise of trying to get his eyes to open wider, blinking hard and making extravagant faces.

  ‘So?’ Joe prompted, sliding the food across the table towards him.

  ‘Yeah … So …’ Still blinking hard, Chetwood looked down at the plate. ‘Then Sam died, and Jenna had a sort of breakdown. Well, no, it wasn’t a sort of a breakdown - it was a breakdown, pure and simple.’ He picked up the knife and prodded the pate. ‘Doctors, shrinks, the lot. Getting her through it was a nightmare - the police, the inquest, the relatives … Jenna kept wanting to tell everyone it was all her fault, I kept felling her to keep quiet because talk like that wasn’t going to do anyone any favours, no one at all, quite apart from the fact that she had nothing to reproach herself for. In the end, we did a deal. She said she’d keep quiet if I helped her start a new life. She’d thought it all out.’ A touch of pride crept into his voice. ‘Knew exactly what she wanted. To make this journey. To lead a life that was directed, structured, uncomplicated. A contempt—’ he was beginning to stumble over his words - ‘a contemplative life. Reading, talking, animals … no people.’ His hand indicated their surroundings.

  ‘And she made -the most of it, clever girl that she was. Began to study and read - comparative religion, you name it. I tell you, she ended up knowing more about Buddhism than I ever did.’

  Joe waited attentively while Chetwood fought to keep his eyes open.

  ‘So… the deal was, I would stay with her for three months. That was all she asked. Three months while she got herself on an even keel, got some simplified living under her belt, so to speak. Well, I didn’t feel I had much choice to begin with. She wasn’t in any state to be on her own. But then . . ,’

  He pushed the food away untasted. He sank back against the cushions. ‘That was the crazy thing, Joe. I got sold. On the life.

  On the journey.’ A soft pause. ‘And on her.’

  He was silent, and this time he never got going again. He squinted up at the roof through drooping lids, he made one last effort to open his eyes, and then he was asleep.

  Joe went out onto the verandah and switched on his mobile to find there was no signal. Back inside the cabin he hunted for a phone, wondering if the drive for self-sufficiency had gone that far.

  He spotted it the moment he peered into the bedroom, illuminated in the rectangle of light from the door, a portable sitting on its stand. Going to pick it up, he saw a bed strewn with clothes, a desk littered with papers, and on the floor an open travelling bag, half-unpacked. When he checked the phone, the dialling tone sounded so faint it might have been emerging from a long tunnel, but it got no worse as he walked back into the main room and across to the kitchen table.

  Before dialling, he took a last moment to consider whether he was doing the right thing. Perhaps he should just walk away and leave Chetwood to his unconcern, perhaps he should simply leave a large note telling him to get himself a good lawyer. But even as he thought this his eye caught the daubs of fingerprint powder over the arms of the kitchen chairs, and he had an urgent sense of time running out.

  To find a good solicitor in a strange part of the country at nine in the evening offered a range of choices. He could go about it the hard way and trawl through friends of friends who might know of someone in Cardiff who was a partner in a firm which boasted a high-flier in crime. He could go through the phone directory, conducting what would amount to a series of phone interviews with those solicitors so hungry for business that they’d posted emergency contact numbers in the book, itself an indicator that they might not have reached the higher echelons of the profession. Or he could take the easy option, which as he began to dial, as he felt the tightness in his chest and the sweat on his palms, felt like the hardest option of all.

  Sarah’s mobile was switched off or out of range. He tried not to imagine where she might be, but the images came to him all the same: at the cinema, at dinner, in bed with someone else. Her home number was taking messages, and he decided to leave one. He began casually - ‘Hi, how are you?’ and ‘Sorry to bother you with this’ - before describing the problem and the urgency. He was beginning to explain that Chetwood had already given one taped interview to the police when there was a click and, thinking she had picked up, he stopped a called,‘Hello?’

  Met by silence, he resumed his conversation with the t; ‘I thought we’d been cut off.’

  Her voice said, ‘It’s me.’

  It was her. She sounded a long way off.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Has he actually been arrested?’ It was her working tone: cool and businesslike.

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not too clear on the details.’

  ‘Is he on police bail?’

  ‘He hasn’t said so. But they suggested he might care to have a lawyer with him before he did the taped interview.’

  ‘But he didn’t take them up on it?’

  ‘No.’

  A pause while she absorbed this. Somewhere in the background, transmitting faintly on the bass notes, a TV was playing, or a music system.

  She said, ‘You think it could be serious?’

  ‘Well, they were all over the house today, fingerprinting everything.’

  ‘What was that? You’re fading.’

  As Joe repeated it he got up and moved closer to the base station. Passing the glass-paned door, he saw Pym climbing up onto the verandah.

  ‘He really must not say another word without a lawyer,’

  Sarah was instructing. ‘Whether they arrest him on suspicion or just request an interview, he must refuse to say anything until he can get hold of a good solicitor. It might mean waiting around, but it’s very important. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want me to find someone?’

  ‘If you could.’

  ‘I won’t be able to do anything before morning.’

  ‘No.’

  She was thinking again. ‘When was the body found?’

  ‘Yesterday morning.’

  ‘When was the postmortem carried out?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘That’s it,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘They must have found something in the postmortem.

  That’s the only possible explanation for kicking off a major inquiry so suddenly.’ In the background the music had stopped, or she had walked into another room. ‘Your side will have to get your own PM carried out,’ she said briskly. ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How long was she missing?’

  ‘They think days.’

  The final pause. ‘Why wasn’t she found for such a long time?’

  ‘He was away.’

  ‘Well, that could give him an alibi. Get him to think about it. Get him to remember where he’s
been, and who with, and what proof there is.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Give me till ten.’

  ‘I’ll have to call you. I don’t know the number here. And Sarah? Thanks.’

  She rang off without reply.

  Pym had put a blanket over Chetwood and dealt with the stove. ‘Are you staying?’ she asked, as she let the dog out.

  ‘Yes,* he said, and she brought another blanket.

  Joe had the impression of being awake for hours, but probably slept for longer than he realised. When he was awake he thought about the postmortem and the police investigation.

  When he was asleep he had dreams of the office, a recurring scenario in which he tried to get to the next morning’s conference against impossible odds, geographical, chronological, and plain nightmarish - cabs refusing to move, lifts getting stuck only to arrive as the meeting was finishing and finding Ritch there in person, pointing his stubby finger at a point between Joe’s eyes, like a man sighting along a gun, with Harry Galbraith at his side, looking daggers. In one of these episodes, Joe had actually been sacked before he managed to get there, so that his security card wouldn’t operate the turnstile and the security men came forward to eject him from the building.

  When he was halfway between sleep and waking, he thought of Sarah, hazy drifting images of her eyes and her mouth and her trembling body. Not so bad. Certainly not bad enough to throw away, or deny, or resent; good enough to miss in fact, good enough to revive the small dull ache of loss.

  He woke at dawn to find Chetwood gone. From the door he saw a pale luminous sky and a low mist with the ridge of a dark hill rising out of it like a surfacing whale. In time the dog trotted into view, followed by Chetwood at a slow walk. In that moment Joe saw it all: the beauty, the remoteness, the seductive possibility of change.

  It was half an hour later, as they sat down to breakfast, that Craig and two of his men clumped up the steps. Dressed as if for the city in a long coat, polished shoes and a silk tie, Craig stood square in the doorway and, addressing Chetwood in measured tones, announced that he was arresting him on suspicion of the murder of Jennifer Helen Rosalind Chetwood.

  Chapter Ten

  A pair of cream leather chairs inspired by leaping antelope dominated the conference area of Harry’s office. The bentwood legs formed two wave-like curves, while the arms described tighter but equally graceful arcs above. The seats were low and the backs sloped at a leisurely angle like steamer chairs. Harry had found them at an exhibition in Milan, a fact of which he was inordinately proud and mentioned often, as if to dispel incipient accusations of fogeyism. However, the chairs were hard to sit in without appearing to lounge, even laze, a problem visitors overcame by sitting forward over their knees. Harry, on the other hand, had worked hard on the art of maintaining gravitas at the near-horizontal. Sprawled in the opposite chair now, his large frame was skewed at an angle across the seat, one elbow propped on an arm, a knuckle pressed to his chin, brows furrowed in an attitude of concern.