The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2)

by Marty Wingate

  “DS Hobbes tells me that one of your workers found the body—Fox?” He cocked his head at his sergeant.

  “Robbie Fox, sir,” Hobbes said.

  “Well?” Tatt barked, making Pru jump. “What happened?”

  She explained, for the first time piecing together each moment in her mind. When she arrived at Ned’s body, she stopped and swallowed.

  “The body, Ms. Parke—what did you see?” Tatt asked. She wished he would turn down his volume.

  Christopher sat and poured out mugs of tea. Pru took the milk jug, but her hand shook, and so she put the jug back down. Christopher added the milk for her, as well as a spoonful of sugar, and then covered her hand with his. “Take your time, it’s all right.”

  “It’s a straightforward question, Pearse. There’s no need to mollycoddle her.”

  Pru supposed after meeting two kind police officers—Christopher and Sergeant Hobbes—her number was up, and it was time for an annoying one. She took a sip of sweet, milky tea and described what she saw, keeping hold of Christopher’s hand.

  “Where were your workers today?” Tatt asked. “Hobbes says there are two others—Fergal and Liam Duffy,” he said, looking down at his notebook.

  “They weren’t scheduled to work.”

  “And what do you know about this Fox? Does he cause trouble around here? Get in arguments?”

  “Of course not,” she replied, her indignation on Robbie’s behalf rising to the surface. “He’s a fine boy, he’s very helpful.”

  “Boy? Hobbes”—he whirled around to his sergeant—“you told me he was twenty-three.”

  Pru answered first. “He is twenty-three, but mentally he’s more about ten. He works hard in the garden, and we like having him here.”

  “Where are the Templetons?” Tatt asked.

  “Oh God,” she said, looking at Christopher. “I should ring Davina, I forgot.”

  “Do you know when—” Christopher began.

  “Ms. Parke, pay attention.” Tatt raised his voice another few decibels.

  “I am paying attention.” Anger had replaced nausea, but she wished that, if she did need to throw up again, it could be on Tatt.

  “I rang her and left a message, sir,” Hobbes said.

  A knock. “Hobbes,” Tatt said, jerking his head toward the door.

  The DS got up to answer; Pru rose and stood behind him. A uniformed policeman waited outside with a large clear plastic bag containing something red. Pru backed off a step, but then realized that the red wasn’t blood. The bag held a red fleece jacket, and she was close enough to read the name written in black marker on the inside of the collar: R. Fox.

  Tatt pushed past her and stepped outside to talk. Pru peered over his shoulder and noticed that the officer held another bag, too. This one had a hatchet in it—a hatchet with a bloody blade. She felt Christopher’s hands on her shoulders.

  Tatt turned back inside and saw them clustered around the door. “What’s all this? Hobbes, get this Fox to the station for questioning.”

  “Why? Why do you need Robbie?” Pru asked. “He didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “And how would you know that? You know very little other than what you saw. You don’t even know when the murder occurred, Ms. Parke—now do you?”

  “When?” she asked.

  “At least eighteen hours ago,” the sergeant replied.

  “Shut it, Hobbes,” Tatt said. “Ms. Parke, that’s none of your business. Or yours, Pearse.”

  She felt Christopher’s hands on her shoulders tighten briefly. “Robbie’s mother has to be there when you question him,” Pru said. “And I’ll be there, too.”

  “You will not be there,” Tatt replied. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m his advocate, that’s who I am.” At least, she thought she could be. Pru had heard Ivy talk about advocates—someone who could help advise and interpret situations. More friend of the family than licensed professional—certainly Pru could fill that role. At least she didn’t believe Tatt could tell her that she couldn’t, as long as Ivy approved. “I have a right to be there.”

  “You have no rights.” Tatt’s voice got both louder and higher.

  Christopher was the picture of calm. “I believe she does.”

  Tatt glared at them all. “Well, don’t try flashing your warrant card around my station, Pearse. I can at least keep you out.” He left.

  Hobbes followed, but before he left, he turned back and said, “I’ll ask Ivy to bring Robbie in at three o’clock.”

  “Thanks,” Pru whispered.

  “Hobbes!” Tatt shouted over his shoulder. The DS left, closing the door behind him.

  Pru stared at the closed door. “What a jerk,” she said. She turned to Christopher. “You know him. You know how he works.”

  “Yes,” he said, “and I dislike his methods.”

  She almost laughed. “Dislike?”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “Intensely.”

  “Don’t get carried away now,” she said.

  He took her in his arms. “I don’t get carried away by anything but you. I love you with all my heart, and I’m so sorry this happened.”

  It was the permission she needed. She gave a shudder, and the tears burst forth. Christopher didn’t speak, just let her get over it, stroking her back. Once she’d sobbed herself quiet again and heaved a couple of heavy sighs, she looked up. “All right,” she said, “that’s that.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped her cheeks; she patted his damp lapel. “You’re quite good at soaking up my tears. Now, I’ll fix us some sandwiches.”

  “You’ll fix them, will you?” he asked. That got a smile from her; he had his ear out for her Texas vocabulary.

  Christopher brewed another pot of tea, and when they sat down to lunch, Pru found herself alternating between being famished and having no appetite.

  But before she took a bite, Davina rang from Brussels, having heard only the bare minimum from DS Hobbes. Pru kept the horror of her discovery for a later conversation, and related the facts as simply as possible.

  “Poor Ned. And how are you holding up?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Pru looked across the table and smiled. “Christopher is here with me.”

  “Thank God you aren’t alone. We’ll be back first thing Monday,” Davina said. “I’m so sorry to leave this all with you, but we just can’t get away. You have the police ring us with any questions until then.”

  Pru didn’t explain about Tatt, but she wished she could be a fly on the wall—or a bug on the phone—to overhear that conversation.

  She backtracked and told Christopher about the yew—obviously not the big news it had been yesterday—and about seeking out Jamie.

  “I don’t know why I thought I should talk with him,” Pru said. “I guess I hoped I could get him to confess to cutting down the yew. Although how a gardener could be so destructive I have no idea. By the time I got back, it was well after dark.” She looked out the window above the sink as she remembered. “I thought they all left in the afternoon. There wasn’t anything else to do. Although Ned did have a tendency to putter about on his own—I think he wanted to remind me that he had been here longer and knew what had to be done. It looked as if he’d started to take the yew branches down to the brush pile. But the place seemed deserted when I got back.”

  Christopher watched her for a moment. “Have you ever seen Robbie angry?”

  “No,” she said as she shook her head. “Robbie had no part in this. No.”

  “You said he liked to play with the hatchet as if it was a weapon,” he reminded her.

  “We have rules, and he follows the rules,” she said, her voice wavering. “No.”

  He took her hand across the table and stroked it for a moment. “Liam has had a grudge against Ned.”

  She pulled her hand away, alarmed at the image that sprang into her mind of Liam yelling at the old man. “No, not Liam. I know he has a temper, but he’s not violent. He couldn�
��t do it.”

  Christopher took her hand back again and held it. “Tatt will ask these questions and more—and it won’t be pleasant. You have to ask hard questions to get at the truth—there’s no way around it. You have to keep asking until you get the answers.”

  She didn’t reply, but waited for him to realize what he’d said.

  “Not you,” he said in a rush. “I didn’t mean that you should ask the questions.” She got up, walked around him, and put the plates in the sink. “Pru, this was a horribly violent act. You can’t take any part of the investigation upon yourself. Please don’t put yourself in danger, thinking that you need to prove someone’s innocence.”

  He turned round in his chair and she stood between his knees, resting her arms on his shoulders as he sat. “I know Robbie and I know Liam. They aren’t capable of this.” She kissed him. “You don’t have to worry—I won’t stick my nose into anything I shouldn’t. I’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you will.” His ironic tone was not lost on her. He put his arms around her waist. “You’re loyal to your friends.”

  “Woof.” She kissed him again as he slipped his hand under her sweater in back. His phone rang.

  “Seems like old times,” she said, and turned to the sink as he stood and walked into the sitting room to answer.

  “Pearse…Yes, I knew it was coming in today….Put it on my desk and I’ll attend to it on Monday….No, it isn’t urgent. Monday will be in plenty of time….No, I will not be in tomorrow….On my desk….Right.”

  He rang off. She leaned against the sink and said, “You weren’t supposed to be here this weekend.”

  He returned to the kitchen and sat on the edge of the table. “I’m grateful that Hobbes rang. I couldn’t leave you alone with this.”

  A vision of Ned’s body appeared in her mind, and tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away, hoping to sound levelheaded and reasonable. “Is this going to be a problem for you?”

  He regarded her in silence. She loved those long, deep looks of his, and could so easily get lost in them. “For a very long time,” he said, “I had nothing in my life except work. Evenings and weekends were merely opportunities to file reports, interview suspects, go over evidence. The people I work with grew accustomed to the fact that I was available at any time.” He pushed a wisp of hair out of her face. “But now I have you in my life, and I don’t want to spend every waking moment as a DCI—nor do I need to. I know that, and I hope that you know that. It’ll just take time for the rest of them to figure it out.” He smiled. “It isn’t a problem. You could never be a problem.”

  “Really? Never?” She laughed. “I’ll remind you of that sometime.”

  Chapter 13

  They took Christopher’s car to the station, and on the drive, Pru asked, “How do you know Tatt? Did you work together?”

  “We were up for DCI at the same time years ago,” Christopher said. “I got it, he didn’t. Instead of staying in London with the Met as a sergeant, he took this post.”

  “He’s envious of you, then,” she said. “Has he always been this mean?”

  “His manner is probably one of the reasons he didn’t make DCI. He gets the job done, but no one likes to watch.”

  When they arrived at the station, Ivy, with Robbie in tow, stood at the front desk speaking to the sergeant.

  “Oh, Pru, did they make you come down, too?” Ivy asked. “I don’t know what they expect Robbie to tell them. You told them about Ned, so Robbie shouldn’t have to…you know, describe what he saw.” She kept a firm grip on her son, while he watched police officers come and go.

  So, they hadn’t told her yet about Robbie’s jacket. Perhaps Tatt was hoping for a shocking revelation and confession, Pru thought, her annoyance at the DI continuing to grow. “I said that I would be Robbie’s advocate, so they would have to let me be there when they talk with him. With you there, too. Is that all right?”

  Ivy grabbed Pru’s arm, too. “Thank you, you’ll be such a help.”

  As if he thought Christopher would hijack the interview, Tatt monitored admittance to the interrogation room, allowing in Robbie, Ivy, and Pru, after which he slammed the door. His theatrics were lost on Christopher, who was already settled in a chair out in the lobby.

  DS Hobbes was also in the room. He started the recorder and gave the vitals—day, time, those in attendance—after which Tatt took over.

  “Robbie my boy,” he said, holding up the bag with the red fleece jacket. “Is this your jacket?”

  Robbie turned to his mother. “I didn’t lose it, Mum, I didn’t lose my jacket.”

  “This jacket,” Tatt said to Ivy, his voice ricocheting off the hard surfaces of the room, “with your son’s name inked in it, was found buried in a shallow hole behind the brush pile at Primrose House, Ms. Fox. Wrapped in it was the murder weapon.”

  Ivy gasped and squeezed Robbie’s arm, causing him to let out a yelp. “How could that be?” she said in a hoarse whisper. “It was lost, wasn’t it, Robbie? Did you forget it at Chaffinch’s?”

  “It was cold outside, and he needed my jacket,” Robbie said.

  The room was quiet. “Who needed your jacket, boy?” Tatt asked.

  “My mate. I gave it to my mate. He was cold, Mum,” Robbie said. “I was sharing.”

  Relief washed over Ivy’s face. “Was it Andrew?” To Tatt she said, “Andrew is Robbie’s friend at Chaffinch’s. Andrew must’ve borrowed the jacket.”

  Tatt ignored her and turned back to Robbie. “You didn’t give it to anyone, now did you, Robbie?”

  “What do you think he did,” Pru said, trying to keep her voice under control, “drive himself down to Primrose House, kill Ned, leave his jacket, and drive back to his care center?”

  “If you’d like to remain in this interview, Ms. Parke,” Tatt bellowed, “you’ll keep quiet.”

  “Robbie hasn’t had his jacket since Tuesday,” Pru said. “None of us remember seeing it since then, isn’t that right, Ivy? Robbie may have left it in the garden that day. We were all working very hard, and he got warm, took it off, and probably forgot it. Someone else must’ve found it.”

  “Well, now, isn’t that convenient? Just the thing to wrap a hatchet in,” Tatt said. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Robbie my boy?”

  “I’m not allowed to touch the hatchet,” Robbie said. “Pru says I’m not allowed. ‘Don’t touch the hatchet. Don’t touch the ax.’ That’s what you said, Pru.”

  Pru looked at Tatt as she replied. “Yes, Robbie, that’s what I said.”

  Continued questioning brought no other details to light. Tatt assigned Hobbes to check out Chaffinch’s and Andrew. The inspector was reluctant to let them go, but eventually dismissed them with a warning that Robbie could be called back for more questioning at any time—as could Pru.

  Christopher met them as they emptied out into the lobby. DS Hobbes came up and asked, “Pru, have you seen this before?” He held out a small plastic bag containing a pocketknife.

  “No, it isn’t mine. I don’t believe I’ve seen Liam or Fergal with a pocketknife. Or Ned.”

  “It isn’t really a garden tool, is it?” he asked.

  “It can be used in the garden—a knife is always handy. And anyway,” she said, “anything can be a garden tool. I had a friend who weeded with a screwdriver.” She took the bag from him. The knife had no initials or crest—nothing she could see that would identify its owner; when she turned it over, she saw a smear of blood. She handed the bag back and wiped her hand on her trouser leg. “Where did you find it?”

  “Inspector Pearse spotted it,” Hobbes said, giving a quick look over his shoulder. “Just beside the…near Ned.”

  “Doesn’t look like it’s been there long. You’ll check for fingerprints, I suppose?” she asked.

  “We’ll check against all of yours at the garden—routine, of course. We don’t have the Templetons’ fingerprints, so they’ll need to come in when they arrive back.”
>
  As Pru and Christopher walked out to the car park, a dreadful realization hit her. “Cate—oh God, I forgot about her.”

  Christopher’s phone rang, but he made no move to answer until she said, “I’ll ring her now.”

  She heard him as he walked away. “Pearse…No, I won’t be in tomorrow…”

  Pru dug in her bag and found the paper with Cate’s numbers on it.

  Cate answered in a weak voice.

  “It’s Pru. I’m so sorry about your father.”

  Cate gave a little sob. “I don’t know how this could happen.”

  Pru responded with a few words meant to comfort. They chatted only a couple of minutes more—Pru could hear voices in the background and so she knew Cate wasn’t alone. She rang off just as Christopher returned.

  “Shall we stop for a meal in town?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes, we’d better. All I’ve got is a frozen moussaka from Ivy.” On the short drive down to one of the cafés on the Pantiles, she asked the question most important to her, although she was afraid to hear the answer. “Have you been called back to work tomorrow?”

  He finished pulling into a parking space before he answered. “I won’t leave, at least not until Sunday evening.”

  The thought of his presence at the cottage and his warm body next to her in bed brought her to the edge of grateful tears. Pru kissed Christopher, first on the cheek and again on the mouth. “Thank you.”

  After they were seated and served the wine, he asked, “How is Cate?”

  “She’s managing.” She toyed with the stem of her glass. “Cate said that Tatt will be there tomorrow morning to talk with her. He’ll be there at eleven.” She felt his eyes on her. “I said we’d be there at ten-thirty,” she continued with a quick glance up followed by a sip of wine. “You don’t have to go, I don’t want to assume that…”

  Christopher picked up his glass as he said, with a gleam in his eye, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Cate and Nanda have been staying with a friend, but Francine is out this evening,” Pru said, and paused, staring at the table. “I heard a man’s voice in the background. I think it was Liam.” Christopher didn’t have time to reply before she took his hand and said, “It’s good she isn’t alone. Think how unbearable that would be.”