Phil Wickens was given a good grilling. He admitted that he had been devastated when June married Alan, particularly after such a short acquaintance, but if she had seemed happy he would have made the best of it and been pleased for her; however, instead of blooming, she had begun to wither. That was how he expressed it to the Detective Inspector interviewing him. Alan, at any social gathering, prevented her from speaking to other men, coming up and almost forcibly removing her, he said, and less than a week before she disappeared, she had told him that Alan had forbidden her to speak to him.
‘For your own sake, you’d better not come near me, even at work. Go to another desk,’ she’d warned, and he had said it was ridiculous, they’d known each other all their lives.
‘It’ll get easier in time,’ she’d said. ‘He’ll learn to trust me.’
In the lambing shed, Phil had urged her to leave Alan. The marriage was a mistake. She could admit that and divorce him. But June had said she must keep trying.
‘I still love him,’ she had declared.
‘Do you?’ Phil had been incredulous.
‘Yes,’ she had answered. ‘This is all my fault, you see, Phil. I don’t come up to his expectations.’
‘You come up to mine. More than,’ Phil had gritted out. ‘I’d look after you.’
The inspector had seen it all before.
‘”Love is blind”,’ he quoted. ‘Its victims don’t want to see what’s obvious to other people. She was making excuses for him, and for herself. She’d made a big investment in him, hadn’t she, throwing you over for him?’
‘We’d got no official understanding,’ Phil said, reddening. ‘I didn’t move fast enough, I suppose. We’d plenty of time, I thought.’ He was still only twenty-three. June had been not quite twenty-one when she was killed.
At this stage in the investigation, the police had discovered that Alan had been married before and that he had twice been charged with rape. Both times he had been acquitted, alleging that the women had consented. Each had known him slightly; each had been cross-examined in such a way as to imply that they were morally lax. By law, his identity had been concealed. Had she known about these incidents, June might have found Alan less appealing. His first wife, now happily remarried and with a baby son, was traced; she described him as a sadist.
‘He liked the rough stuff, seemingly,’ said Detective Inspector Rutherford.
This time, after the wedding, Alan had insured June’s life. Rutherford thought June had been doomed from the day she made her vows. The police were sure that Alan was their man but evidence was scarce. The Crown Prosecution Service and, later, the jury, must be certain of his guilt.
They had the bruises. These could be explained away by excuses that she had fallen, had been clumsy, even though work colleagues would testify to her altered manner and the marks that they had noticed.
Alan’s house was examined minutely. His clothes were taken away for testing. Without the weapon, proof that the gun stolen from the Wickenses had been used could not be found, and in any case ballistic proof from shotguns was notoriously difficult to establish.
It was the string with which he had tied the bundle containing June’s dead body that secured Alan’s conviction. One of his assistants had seen him take such a ball from stock a few days before June disappeared. He’d watched to see if Alan paid for it, but he hadn’t. Typical, the assistant said, and who would get the blame when stocks didn’t balance up? The ball of twine was found in a cupboard in Alan’s kitchen; it had been cut with scissors, and the frayed end matched the twine tying up the bin bags. In a drawer in the kitchen were the scissors used, and a wisp, extremely small, had attached itself to the hinge between the blades. Taken alone, this was not conclusive; the fragments could have come from an identical ball, but added to the evidence, admitted by the accused, of discord between the pair, and the fact that Alan had no alibi for the evening of the day when June was last seen, it was enough.
He could not plead manslaughter. Theft of the gun proved intent to kill. The insurance policy was further confirmation.
Alan had been found guilty, but though the mandatory sentence for murder is life imprisonment, most killers are let out on licence after nine or ten years. His mother had visited him at first, making the journey alone when, after a while, Tom stopped going. Then she, too, had ended her lonely pilgrimages, but she never got rid of his possessions. To the end of her life, she would go into his room and try to recapture the image of the little boy whom she had loved. What had gone wrong? Why had his life turned out so badly? It was only after the murder trial that she and Tom learned the nature of his earlier brushes with the courts and the fact that he had been accused of rape. Dorothy recalled a puppy he had had; it would not obey him, running off, not corning when he called it. Tom had found it with its head bashed in. Alan had denied killing the animal, but his mother had never been convinced that he was innocent for there had been other episodes: butterflies pulled to bits while still alive, toads cut in half. She knew he had a cruel streak, a tendency to violence.
After her death, Tom had not had the will to get rid of Alan’s things, though he wanted to turn his back on him, just as if he, too, had died.
But Alan wasn’t dead. He had killed one woman and assaulted others – for he had: Tom knew he had carried out the rapes, and there was his cruel treatment of his first wife. One day he would be released from prison and what would happen then? He might kill again. After he came to The Willows, in the presence of Steve and Mark, Tom’s physical decline was rapid.
Alan had come to collect the gun. He had plans to use it after his imminent release. With it, he could rob a bank. With money, he could leave the country. Why stay where he had a criminal record? He’d start a business overseas: he’d prosper, making up for all the time he’d lost.
His scheme backfired, however. He had intended to enter the house armed with the gun, use it to terrify the sick old man, and hide it under the floorboards in his room or in the attic, ready for collection later. However, he’d reckoned without the flood water. Years ago, Tom, to defeat the annual winter sogginess of the garden, had had a flagged path laid leading to the shed. That was not a problem, but inside the shed, where the gun, well-greased and wrapped in plastic sheeting, together with the box of cartridges, securely sealed in several protective layers, was buried at least three feet deep, there was now a solid concrete path between the benches.
Digging them out would be a major task. He’d need to break the concrete up. The job would have to wait until a later visit. This time, once the boys had gone, he’d had to be content with frightening the feeble old man enough to get some money from him.
He’d had a night out with the cash, but there hadn’t been a lot: less than three hundred pounds, some of it in a drawer in the sitting-room, the rest upstairs, an emergency fund, the old man had said, in a bedroom cupboard.
‘If I tell you where it is, will you go?’ old Tom had gasped.
‘Sure,’ said Alan. ‘But I’ll be back.’
As he left the house, Tom’s words had echoed in his head.
‘You’re responsible for your own actions. Everyone is. When they let you out, remember that,’ he said.
‘I’m out now,’ Alan had jeered. He’d said that he was on official leave.
Tom hadn’t been certain that this was the truth. Alan might have absconded from some rehabilitation expedition, and if so, the police would soon be round.
‘Don’t go hurting other people,’ Tom had implored. ‘Not again.’ There’d been so many: those wretched girls, and his mother.
He was too tired, too shocked by Alan’s appearance and his conduct to do more than make this small appeal. Tom suspected nothing about the concealed gun; Alan knew he hadn’t found it, or he would have mentioned it. He’d get it on his next leave. By then the water would have receded, or if it hadn’t, he would dig the gun out as soon as his release came through; that wasn’t too far off now. If necessary, he’d tie the o
ld man up to stop him interfering.
Tom’s sudden death surprised Alan; he had realised that the old man was very weak but had thought him merely convalescent. Now he was angry. What right had the old fool to die before he, Alan, had finished with him, wreaked revenge? Forgotten were the rescues of the past, the debts paid, the job found; instead, scoldings and punishments were remembered. Alan did not want to think about his mother’s tears, her attempts to mediate between them, to minimise or excuse his transgressions. Finally, even she had deserted him, thanks, Alan convinced himself, to the old man’s influence.
There would be compensations, though: he’d get all the money, and the house, in nice time for his release. He was the only heir. Alan made no attempt to attend the funeral, although he would almost certainly have been permitted to attend. Nowadays, his face was unfamiliar in the area, and it was better left that way. He didn’t even send a wreath.
It was some weeks before he learned that he had not been left a penny in the old man’s will.
11
Mark hadn’t thought much about Christmas yet.
Until last year, despite evidence to the contrary, he had managed to convince himself that Father Christmas came down the narrow chimney of their small house, past the gas fire, and plodded silently upstairs to fill his stocking.
For the last three years he’d stayed awake for hours, suspicious about the contents of small parcels his mother had brought home and not unwrapped, taking them mysteriously to her room. He’d thought of searching for them, but it seemed that they were private. He had secrets; she might have some too, and he respected that.
This year, Ivy and Sharon were conspiring. Kylie had written a letter asking for roller blades for herself and a toy garage for baby Adam; she was sure he’d soon be old enough to play with one.
‘Have you written your letter, Mark?’ Kylie asked him, and when he said no, she pressed him to do it.
Blushing, Mark scribbled something on a pad, folded it and sent it up Ivy’s chimney, where a coal fire burned in the grate.
‘What did you ask for?’ Sharon asked. She liked Mark, who was intrigued by Adam and would hang over him, making him smile and even crooning to him, promising to read to him when he was older.
‘If I tell, I won’t get it,’ Mark replied. His wish was impossible to grant; he wanted a family.
He was often at Ivy’s with the younger ones, now. He knew that since Tom’s death, Steve had been with other boys hanging around cars, looking for any that might be unlocked so that they could steal things. This made Mark uneasy. He didn’t think Steve would really steal – but then, he’d thieved from Tom; Mark knew that. Perhaps he’d got a taste for it. He once came home with a camera which he said he’d bought for Ivy; it was going cheap, he’d explained, since everyone knew he couldn’t have afforded it at the proper price. He said it was her Christmas present, early. Mark knew that he had stolen it.
Mark didn’t want to be a big boy yet. It was enough to be considered old enough to be at home alone. He had no wish to go out in a gang with Steve and his friends.
‘Send the kid home,’ Bruce had said to Steve, who had once taken Mark along, largely at Ivy’s insistence; she thought his place was with the boys, not with her and the girls. Adam didn’t count yet. But Mark had thankfully returned and played cards with Kylie till it was nearly time for his mother to return.
She would be on duty over Christmas. The hotel ran special breaks to attract people who wanted to escape from one thing or another: their families, the chores, even solitude. Festive programmes were arranged, and activities for children. Mark was going with her; he could join in some of the junior treats. He’d spent occasional weekend nights there recently, since her promotion; the head chef had a son much his age and they got on well. Mark liked these excursions; sometimes he sat quietly in the office where his mother worked. She knew he wouldn’t interrupt her; he would read quietly or play patience, which he’d learned from Tom. Later, his mother would take some leave and spend time with him. They’d swim, maybe go to the cinema, or skate. They might visit a castle or a museum. Susan always devoted herself to enjoying these days, sharing his pleasure and trying to increase it. He was never wild or naughty, and he was enthusiastic about everything they did together. He was doing well at school and was good company. Much of the credit must be due to Ivy, Susan thought; she’d been so lucky to find her and Joe, whose sudden death was tragic. Susan had thought his influence so good for Mark; he was a solid, decent man who had run the booking office at the station.
His death must have hit Steve hard; now he had no natural parent. In the past, Susan had sometimes taken Steve on trips with her and Mark, but the age gap was becoming more pronounced with Steve in his teens. Perhaps some other boy might be invited, though she had reservations about Terry as a suitable friend, after his disappearance. What had really happened then?
Susan was too busy with the present to think much about the future, apart from doing all she could for Mark. A good education was essential, and the comprehensive school in Haverscot had such an excellent reputation that it was a reason for staying in the area. She had turned down the offer of a job in London; she didn’t want to go back there. If she were to take promotion elsewhere, she would have to be sure that Mark’s schooling would not receive a setback.
She did not want to marry. In the hotel, she saw couples of all kinds: some were happy, maybe celebrating; others were enjoying one-night stands, or not enjoying them. Many guests were there on business, and if they whiled away some hours with casual partners, it was not her concern. Her work was stimulating and had become more demanding; she often had to sort out problems with the staff, and she wanted to keep her own life simple – she had had enough emotion in it to last a lifetime.
Things would be different when Mark grew up and left home, but she would face that when it happened; meanwhile, there was Christmas. When the hotel festivities were over, perhaps she would take Kylie and Ivy to the pantomime; it would do Ivy good. Sharon was tied down with Adam.
Where would Sharon be without her mother’s support? She was little more than a schoolgirl, herself. Susan, much older when she was pregnant, trained and with a good job, had found things difficult enough. It was lucky that Ivy was so fond of babies and small children; Sharon would have more, unless Ivy could coax her in the direction of some effective contraception, and even then, things could go wrong.
Stepfathers could be assets – Joe had been to Sharon and clearly Richard Gardner was a pleasant sort of man; it hadn’t stopped the boy Terry from freaking out, however. At least he’d reappeared with no damage to himself. There were no easy answers, Susan knew.
Richard was dreading Christmas, that period of enforced confinement amid one’s family. He could spend time in his workshop – but that would be seen as selfish, shutting himself away, not joining in the daily round with three people who were, he now admitted, not really his family at all: no blood tie linked them. He didn’t even like them very much.
The confession, albeit made only to himself, was shocking; didn’t he love them? You could love people even when you didn’t like them: love was visceral, but it could be killed. His love for Verity had died, but not his sense of obligation to take care of her, since she was so bad at doing this for herself.
The two boys were increasingly distancing themselves from him. He recognised in Justin real hostility, though there was tolerance, still, from Terry. What should they do about a holiday next year? Christmas was the time for planning one, and in the past he had taken them and Verity to various seaside places in France, from Brittany to Bordeaux; they had rented gîtes in isolation and in the grounds of chateaux. He had dug sandcastles, played beach cricket, financed windsurfing and even sampled it himself. While this went on, Verity painted, substituting clouds and darkness for what were sunny landscapes. Often she destroyed her work when it was done, lapsing into hysteria and self-denigration. Then he would feel pity for her, would put his arms around her,
smooth her tousled mane of hair, and try to calm her.
Later, he would find the wine bottles. Even now he did not always connect cause and effect. She still swallowed pills, those calming capsules which her own doctor was now prescribing.
Perhaps next summer they could find an activity holiday, where the boys could spend the day occupied with sports or pastimes – go-karting, he thought, or maybe sailing: yes, that would be an idea. He could learn to sail, too, if he found somewhere with adult and junior courses, so that they would be separated. Verity would not want to sail; perhaps there would be a painters’ group – not a class, she did not consider that she needed teaching – where she could meet like-minded folk, near the sailing school. Trying to find such a location would occupy him. He could make enquiries, scan advertisements, send for brochures.
Following his disappearance, Terry had been subdued for about a week. Richard had given him a real scolding after their visit to the police station, where Terry had been edgy, cracking unfunny jokes about locking up terrorists in the cells. The station sergeant had not found this amusing and had described the offence of wasting police time. Terry had been very lucky not to be charged with committing criminal damage, he pointed out.
Richard understood that some of Terry’s behaviour had been due to nerves, but a little remorse would not have been out of place, and he said so.
‘They couldn’t do anything to me at my age,’ Terry had scoffed.
‘They could. You could receive an official caution and that would give you a record, so that next time you got into trouble it would count against you,’ Richard said. Then he spoke more gently. ‘There’s not going to be a next time, Terry. I know those boys were teasing you and Mark, and maybe if you’d punched them, it would have been understandable, though foolish, but to go breaking windows and giving your mother all that worry is another thing. Aren’t you at all sorry for upsetting her?’
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