A Cotswold Killing

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Some traveller, I think. You know – a rep. Selling fertiliser or cattle feed or grass seed. His car was full of samples and catalogues. It’ll be his company’s, not his.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault at all. He was just an innocent bystander. Bydriver, I should say.’ She managed a weak laugh. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘He’ll be OK. Get a week off work in the sun, and a good story to tell his mates. Things happen.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Thea sighed. ‘What’ll they do with my car?’

  ‘You need to phone your insurance people. Are you covered comprehensive?’

  ‘Luckily. Will they let me borrow one?’

  ‘Probably. It works pretty smoothly these days.’

  Her guardian went to make her a large mug of tea, sweetening it, as a time-honoured remedy for shock. ‘Should have done this ten minutes ago,’ he said, coming back to her side. ‘Drink it quick.’

  It tasted marvellous. She could feel it soothing her as it went down. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Look, you just lie there, have a little kip. You’ll feel a lot better afterwards, if you do. I’ll see to the dogs.’

  ‘Leave Hepzie with me. She’s going to wonder what’s going on. I don’t usually lie down like this during the day.’ The spaniel was already curled up at her feet, casting liquid brown glances at her mistress every few minutes, inscrutable canine worries filling her expression.

  ‘Nice little beast,’ Martin Stacey said, giving the dog a brief pat.

  And rather to her surprise, Thea did drift off to sleep, letting the shame and self-reproach fall away, knowing they’d come back again soon enough.

  She was woken by the pressure of a full bladder, with no idea of where she was, what time it must be or who was with her. The disorientation was frightening for a full minute, as she stared fuzzily at the big front window, unable to place it as any bedroom she knew.

  Then reality returned, little by little. She’d been very deeply asleep, for what could have been some hours. The light outside was hard to judge, but it was not that of early afternoon. There was a mutter of voices beyond the window.

  Heavily, she got up and started towards the downstairs loo, just off the hall. The dog followed, and she turned and told her to stay, in a low voice. For some reason, she felt furtive, a disobedient patient, defying instructions.

  In the little cloakroom, before she had time to flush the toilet, the voices came closer. Two people had apparently come into the house through the front door, and were standing just outside the loo, where she could hear every word they said.

  ‘Is Susanna really all right?’ came a woman’s voice which Thea quickly recognised as that of Helen Winstanley.

  ‘At worst, a broken wrist. But it’s more likely just sprained.’

  ‘Whose fault was it, would you say?’

  ‘A bit of both. The Osborne woman was going too fast, and Susie pulled out a bit further than she ought. Bingo! Bad news for the bloke coming the other way.’ Stacey gave an unfeeling little laugh.

  ‘But it’s not going to change anything?’ Her words crackled with anxiety.

  ‘Why the hell should it?’

  ‘Police everywhere again. Susie out of action. It makes things much less predictable.’ Helen’s voice was hard, giving as good as she got. Thea wished she could grasp the nature of the relationship between these two. More urgently than that, she wished they would move away, so she could get out of the loo without being discovered.

  As if granted by a good fairy, a mobile phone began to warble. ‘Damn!’ said Stacey. ‘Not again. I’ll take it outside. You’d better go.’

  Thea waited until she was sure they’d gone, and then crept back to her sofa. They’d never know she’d left it, never have the least idea that she’d overheard them.

  Something, obviously, was going on. Something outside the law, involving Helen and Martin. Lindy’s ‘network’ carried more credibility now. Maybe the illegal immigrant theory didn’t stand up, but what about drugs? ‘Herbs’ was a common euphemism for all sorts of substances. How likely was it that the Staceys were growing something on the banned list amongst their marjoram and dill?

  Highly likely, Thea decided. Absolutely likely. They were running a racket where they supplied hash to locals, and probably people further afield. Maybe they even grew some opium poppies and made it into heroin. Thea had no notion of how that might be done, but she didn’t imagine it was beyond the realms of possibility.

  So – James had been right: there was some sort of organised criminal activity going on close to Barrow Hill, where the murdered brothers had lived. The wrongdoers appeared to include Martin Stacey, Helen Winstanley and Susanna Whatever-her-name-was. How extensive, criminal and dangerous the activities were remained to be seen. But suddenly Thea felt she had a clear mission. For the first time, she had suspects and the bare bones of a credible motive.

  The front door banged, and voices could be heard again. Different voices this time. At least, Martin and somebody else. Thea made her preparations.

  The living room door opened slowly, as someone tapped on it lightly. Hepzie jumped off the sofa and ran to the newcomer, somewhat spoiling Thea’s intended effect. She raised herself and looked over the back of the sofa.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she said, sleepily. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘This is the District Nurse,’ Martin told her, ushering in a stout woman of middle years. ‘Come to give you a check-up.’

  Thea permitted herself a moment of gratitude at the lengths the British Health Service would still go to to watch over the nation’s wellbeing.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said the woman. ‘It’s half past four, or a bit after. Had a good sleep, have you?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Thea. ‘Amazing. I must have slept for two hours or more.’

  ‘Any headache? Double vision? Temperature?’ The woman was at her side, feeling her forehead, peering into her eyes, all briskness and efficiency.

  ‘I feel perfectly all right. It was only the shock made me go wobbly for a bit. Mr Stacey’s been ever so kind. Gosh – you’ve wasted the whole afternoon watching over me, have you?’ She peered around the nurse to where he was still in the doorway, looking quite relaxed.

  ‘No worries.’ He waggled his mobile phone at her. ‘I’ve been catching up with some calls. I let the dogs out. They’re happy enough in the garden.’

  While the nurse took her pulse, Thea examined the man. It was the first time she’d paused to consider him objectively. Three hours ago, he’d been chastising her for careless driving, then he’d dropped everything to come and watch over her – an unusual role for a man, even these days. Next she’d heard him discussing nefarious doings with Helen, and now here he was cheerfully claiming to be quite happy with the situation he’d been landed with.

  There was an energy and outspokenness to him which Thea recognised as attractive to women. But for her, everything about him screamed ‘unreliability’. His chameleon changes, the singular lack of irritation, the way he offered himself so readily when a nursemaid was needed – it all struck her as much too good to be true. He’d been glad to gain entry to Brook View, where he could make calls on his mobile, and stage an encounter with Helen. For the first time, it struck her that he could easily have doctored the sweet tea he’d given her: that would explain her deep sleep. With her dead to the world, he could have indulged whatever whims he liked during the afternoon.

  ‘Look, I really am fine now,’ she repeated, and to prove it she stood up and breathed several deep breaths. ‘Nothing hurts. Clear head. Just a few worries about the car, and a bad feeling about the trouble I’ve caused.’ Then, with a delicious sense of cunning, she added, ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have got to go to the loo.’

  The nurse nodded, and swiped her hands together, as if to delete Thea from her list of concerns. ‘You’ll be all right now,’ she said.

  ‘I can go then, can I?’ said Martin Stacey. ‘You’re sure now?’

&nbs
p; Thea put her hand on his upper arm, as she passed him in the doorway. ‘You’ve been extremely kind,’ she said. ‘I’m ever so grateful.’

  They waited in the living room for her to finish in the toilet, and then Stacey took his leave, climbing into his estate car and driving off sedately. ‘Do you know him?’ The nurse was clearly puzzled.

  ‘No, hardly at all. I don’t live here, you see. I’m just the house-sitter,’ Thea said. ‘The accident was in his gateway, and he saw the whole thing. I suppose he felt he was somehow involved.’

  ‘Hmm. A bit too good to be true, if you ask me,’ said the woman. Thea could have hugged her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Thea had fibbed about the headache; it was throbbing quite badly by seven that evening, and she felt herself move more and more slowly as she fed the dogs and tried to summon the energy to make herself a sandwich. The shopping from Cirencester had been miraculously transferred to the fridge and cupboards, presumably by Martin Stacey, who must have retrieved it from her car without her noticing. Whether or not he’d drugged her, and arranged his criminal business from someone else’s house, he had been thoughtful. She really did owe him some gratitude.

  But it was difficult to think warm thoughts when everything seemed so dark. Why had she been driving so badly anyway? It wasn’t like her. She of all people knew the permanent lifelong penalties that could be suffered from a few minutes of carelessness. She’d been in a hurry to get back, that was all. She’d been hungry and impatient with the meandering confusing lanes. The bend had been far sharper than she’d anticipated, and she’d over-compensated as the car started to swing across to the wrong side. Or had she? She couldn’t recall the exact sequence at all, and that bothered her. The road was wide enough for two vehicles to pass, but only just. Had some sixth sense or unconscious glimpse through the hedges told her there was an oncoming vehicle? Had she hit Susanna as a preferable impact to that with a moving car? For a while she obsessed about it, knowing she would have to make a detailed statement for the insurance people, and knowing, too, that she was never going to escape without the bulk of the blame being laid at her feet.

  The senseless argument about the impact of new traumas and losses came back to bother her. It was not that the same old anguish came flooding back with redoubled force, but that it confirmed some thick vein of pessimism acquired when Carl died. Bad things were going to keep happening. Life was not trustworthy or kind. Every time you got up off the floor and relearnt how to smile, there’d be another knock and down you’d go again.

  And if a minor road accident could make her feel like this, what would she be like when something bigger happened – as it surely would? Her parents would get ill and then die, she’d have money worries, the dog would die, Jessica would have trouble with relationships, grandchildren would be ill or delinquent. The list was endless.

  ‘Selfish cow,’ she told herself out loud. ‘Think about others for a change, why don’t you? Do something useful. Get a life.’

  At least this had the effect of attracting the interest of all three dogs. They stood in a row looking at her, wondering if this was something they ought to be acting upon. And, as if to confirm their impression, the doorbell rang, pealing through the hall and kitchen and somehow setting things going again.

  Harry Richmond stood there, comically clutching a bottle of Rioja, an untidy bunch of garden flowers and a pineapple. ‘Don’t you find,’ he said as soon as she opened the door, ‘that pineapples can be so consoling?’

  ‘Personally, no,’ she argued. ‘Too much work to get to the good bits. Too much wasted.’

  ‘You’re hopeless. What about artichokes, then?’

  ‘Artichokes are immensely over-rated.’

  ‘You’re very pale. Let me come in and nurse you. I’m rather good at it.’

  ‘This place is full of caring men. Must be something in the water.’

  ‘Could be,’ he nodded, giving her the impression he would agree to anything she said, for fear of upsetting her. For all the overdone sick-visiting act, it was obvious he was worried. He watched her as if she was a piece of fragile old porcelain teetering on the edge of the mantelpiece.

  He found a vase for the flowers, and tweaked them here and there, making an extraordinarily effective display. ‘You’ve done that before,’ she accused.

  ‘Flowers are my thing. Surely you noticed?’

  ‘Your lovely garden,’ she remembered. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you cope with wine, or are you still too convalescent?’

  She put an exploratory hand to her head. It was still aching, but much less severely. ‘Give it another hour or so,’ she said. ‘And don’t do anything that’ll give me any stress.’

  ‘I can guarantee to be entirely stress-free,’ he smiled. ‘We can sit and watch programmes about wallpaper, if you like. There’s sure to be several to choose from.’

  They didn’t do that. Harry indicated an interest in Brook View’s garden and they strolled slowly round, in the fading light, with Harry tutting about the draconian slaughter of weeds both on the lawn and in the flowerbeds. ‘I hate to see bare brown soil between the plants,’ he sighed.

  ‘Do you? I think it looks rather good. Especially around the roses.’ The roses had been mulched and each one stood in its island of weed-free soil, looking to Thea’s eye as if it was well cared for and quite contented.

  ‘Ah, well – roses,’ said Harry meaningfully. Clearly he held roses in contempt – an attitude Thea found almost sacrilegious.

  ‘What’s the matter with the pond?’ he asked, as they meandered in that direction.

  ‘What do you mean? I know Clive told me not to turn off the waterfall, but the trickling noise was irritating. I’ll put it on again before they come back.’

  ‘Never mind that – look at it.’

  Thea looked where he pointed, and saw a brownish stain on the far side of the pond, opposite the waterfall. A rim of colour adhered to the rocks, which could be traced around the edge, so the more she looked, the more she found. The water itself seemed to be lightly tinted with red, as well. The poor light made the colour hard to see, but it was certainly not the normal green of a garden pond.

  ‘It wasn’t like that when I arrived,’ she said. ‘What do you think must have happened?’

  ‘Some sort of weed or pollution, I suppose. It doesn’t seem to have upset the water lily.’

  ‘Thank God. That’s Jennifer’s pride and joy. I haven’t topped up the water level yet. I wonder if I should?’

  Harry had no contribution to make to this dilemma, and, after a further minute or two of puzzlement, they went back in. The wine was breathing on the kitchen table, the air lightly scented by Harry’s profusion of home-grown blooms. Thea noticed dust on sills and ledges that had not been there a week before. She had no doubt it would still be there a week hence – but that she would tackle it before Clive and Jennifer returned.

  ‘I feel better,’ she announced. ‘Much better.’

  ‘You haven’t asked me how I knew about it. Your accident, I mean.’

  She pulled a face to express impotence. ‘I know what villages are like,’ she said. ‘No chance of keeping something like that secret.’

  ‘That’s not quite true. But in this case, Isabel phoned Muriel and Muriel phoned me. A short chain. I gather you managed to smack into no fewer than two vehicles, on different sides of the road. Quite an achievement.’

  ‘Please don’t. You make it sound dreadful.’ But she was acting. In reality, the fewer had delighted her. Almost nobody still said fewer. Just as they didn’t say criterion or phenomenon.

  Then she remembered. ‘Harry! It’s Tuesday. You said you and Lindy always play chess on a Tuesday. Have you stood her up for me?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose I have. Don’t worry. She’ll forgive you – and me. She’s got plenty to do at the farm, not to mention mountains of homework the school insists on giving her.’

  He stayed until ten thi
rty, and then firmly ordered her to lock the doors and go to bed the moment he was out of sight. He went with her to escort the dogs on their final circuit of the garden. He hugged her again as he took his leave. A longer warmer hug than before. He rested his chin on the top of her head, reminding her of the appeal of a tall broad man.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, with a slight tremor. ‘You’ve been really kind.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  It all felt soothingly old-fashioned, something from an easier era where there were conventions and forms to follow, tea came in cups with handles and saucers, men brought flowers, and had big white hankies for emergencies.

  When he had gone, she felt more vulnerable than at any point since she’d arrived. The sudden arrival and departure of a protective male had shattered her independence, just like that. ‘Damn it,’ she muttered. ‘I’m forty-two, not sixty-two. Tea in cups and saucers had already died out before I was even born. Nearly, anyway.’ She scowled at Bonzo, who was lying at full stretch in the hallway, looking rather warm. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she demanded. He was panting exaggeratedly.

  Hepzibah helpfully supplied the answer by carrying the square plastic dish that was used for the dogs’ drinking water out from the kitchen. It was completely dry. Thea couldn’t remember filling it for days. ‘Oh Christ,’ she snapped. ‘Thanks, Hepzie.’ She filled it up, and the labradors jostled for the much-needed fluid. She had to fill it two more times before they were sated. ‘Now I suppose you’ll want to pee in the night,’ she complained.

  She went to bed with a sense of foreboding that she fought hard to ignore. When that proved impossible, she tried to rationalise it away. It was obviously the result of the accident, shaking her confidence. It was the result of too much forward planning, rehearsing all the tasks she had to perform next day. Plus self-reproach for her stupidity, and anxiety about whether she should already have contacted the insurance people. She should, of course – but had been defeated by circumstances. She had none of the relevant documents with her, for one thing, including the name of the company. She wasn’t sure whether she was with Norwich Union or Friends Provident. It could just possibly even be Direct Line, although she thought she’d remember if she’d actually changed to them, as she’d once envisaged. There had been so many decisions and changes and forms to fill in when Carl died that car insurance had slipped far down the list of things to remember. Indeed, a nasty niggling doubt was creeping in as to whether she’d remembered to renew the policy at all.