The Unburied Past

by Anthea Fraser

  Adam stared at him. ‘God, you don’t think it’s the same guy?’

  ‘No … no, of course not.’ Nick drained his glass. ‘Top up?’

  Adam nodded absently. ‘She never mentioned anything to me.’

  ‘Then I’m sure it’s all blown over,’ Nick said and, picking up Adam’s glass as well as his own, returned to the bar.

  Kirsty, too, had been hoping it had blown over; there’d been nothing untoward since she’d returned from holiday over two weeks ago. Nor, thank God, had any more attacks been reported, and the press had relegated the policewoman’s murder, though still unresolved, to the inside pages. Nonetheless, the culprit remained at large, as did her parents’ murderers, and her subconscious linking of the crimes caused a superstitious shudder.

  As it happened, the respite came to an end just as Adam and Nick were discussing it. Preparing for bed, Kirsty remembered she’d not closed down her laptop, and from force of habit checked her emails before doing so. Her gasp brought Angie to look over her shoulder.

  Enjoy the film last night? one read. You looked so delectable in that blue dress that I almost reached out to touch you! Next time, perhaps.

  Kirsty groaned in despair. ‘What can I do, Angie? The police haven’t been much help, and now they’ve got their work cut out with their colleague’s murder.’ She shivered. ‘He was there, at the cinema! How creepy is that? All the time we were chatting, eating our ice creams and everything, he could have been in the row just behind us!’

  ‘Can I tell Simon about it?’ Angie asked worriedly. ‘I know you said not to, but this has gone on quite long enough, and if the police aren’t helping he might be able to suggest something.’

  Kirsty stabbed viciously at the delete key. ‘If I confide in anyone, I’d prefer it to be my uncle. Trouble is Auntie Jan would find out, and she’d go ballistic.’

  ‘So? Can I?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ Kirsty prevaricated.

  ‘But why not, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Pride, I suppose; I hate being made to look … defenceless, a sitting duck waiting for whatever he chooses to throw at me. Damn it, I’m an independent career woman with my own business, and I bitterly resent being cast in the role of victim.’

  ‘He seems to have built up a love/hate relationship with you,’ Angie said uneasily. ‘One minute he’s sending you nettles and telling you to mind your manners, the next you’re so “delectable” he wants to touch you.’

  Kirsty shuddered and slammed down the lid on her laptop. ‘He’ll get tired of it eventually,’ she said. But each time she told herself that, it seemed less convincing.

  As arranged, Adam called at the house at two thirty the next afternoon. Angie had left to meet Simon and Kirsty was alone.

  ‘Nice pad,’ he said approvingly, looking around him.

  ‘The ground floor’s the business-side – kitchen, office, packing room. We live on the first and second floors.’

  She led the way up and into the sitting room where, as she usually did herself, he went straight to the window. ‘A bird’s-eye view. Very impressive.’

  ‘Isn’t it? We were lucky to find it.’ She paused, and as he continued to gaze at the view, added encouragingly, ‘I’ll switch on the VCR, shall I?’

  He turned. ‘One thing, before we watch it. Nick tells me you’ve been receiving some unwanted attention.’

  She felt a flash of annoyance. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘It’s still continuing then? He hoped it might have blown over.’

  ‘It’s really nothing to do with him,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Since he came under suspicion, he might think it is. Suppose you tell me about it?’ And, as she started to protest, he raised a hand. ‘All of it,’ he said.

  Perhaps, she thought, this was after all the best solution: not to confide in either her uncle or Simon, but in her big brother who, surprisingly, seemed concerned on her behalf. So she went through the harassment campaign from the beginning – the emails, the flowers, the chocolates, the nettles, the cinema.

  When she came to an end he was silent, staring down at the carpet. ‘You’ve reported it?’

  ‘Yes, but to be fair if I can’t give a name there’s not much anyone can do, and the police have their work cut out on more important matters.’

  ‘You haven’t the slightest idea who this could be?’

  ‘Not the slightest.’

  ‘No disgruntled boyfriends in the offing?’

  ‘No; there’s only been one in the last two years, and he phoned after the attack in the park to advise me not to go there.’

  ‘Double bluff?’

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘Not Lance.’

  ‘Emails can be quite random, but as things were actually delivered to the house, it must be someone who either knows you or knows of you.’

  ‘That had crossed my mind,’ she said drily.

  ‘Well, I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m not wild about it myself.’

  ‘You are taking precautions? Not going out alone, and so on?’

  ‘Not after dark, certainly.’

  ‘You came to the pub. It would have been dark before you reached home.’

  ‘I only had to go from the drive to the front door,’ she pointed out. ‘Look, I’ve no intention of becoming neurotic about this, so let’s drop it, shall we? I’m being sensible; I’ll be fine. Now, can we please look at this tape?’

  He was still frowning as it took it out of his pocket, but his attention switched as he slid it into the machine. ‘I’ll play it through without making any comment, then see what you think of it. I’ve watched it several times myself, and different things strike me each time.’

  They sat together on the sofa as the long-ago events were played out for them on the screen. The story that unfolded was basically as they’d been told, but there were embellishments, personal recollections, anecdotes. Photographs in the press after the murders had elicited memories from people who’d seen the family around the village – Mark constantly taking photographs, Adam climbing on the dais at the fair. A barman in Hawkston remembered them having lunch in their family room; one or two people – holidaymakers like themselves – recalled seeing them several times picnicking at the lakeside. The milkman spoke of his gruesome discovery, the postmistress of giving the children sweets.

  ‘And that wasn’t the only tragedy that summer,’ she added sadly. ‘A gentleman from Hawkston drowned while fishing in Lake Belvedere, and they didn’t find his body for six weeks.’

  In the Crimewatch snippet two adults, the man slight and dark, the woman wearing a pink cotton dress, wheeled a pushchair through the village with a little boy trotting alongside and a baby girl inside. Kirsty’s eyes blurred as she watched them. They looked what they had been, a happy family on holiday. How could it possibly have ended in murder?

  The reporter went on to mention the missing camera and the belief that it contained incriminating evidence of some kind, but any initially promising leads had soon fizzled out and the case remained stubbornly unsolved.

  A click signified the end of the recording. Adam glanced at her enquiringly, and Kirsty said, ‘If the murderers took the camera because it contained evidence against them, it stands to reason they’d have destroyed the film straight away. So I don’t see there’s any way they could be identified, let alone convicted.’

  ‘Anything else strike you?’

  ‘Not immediately. How about you? You said there were pointers.’

  ‘It was that woman mentioning the man who drowned,’ Adam said slowly. ‘I’d read about it in the Gazette archives, but since it was reported in July I didn’t pay much attention. But after hearing that comment I checked back and found that his wife last saw him on Sunday the twenty-fourth of June. Ring any bells?’

  Kirsty’s eyes widened. ‘The day of the murders!’

  ‘Exactly. Might be a coincidence, of course, but I think it could be worth investigating, especially since we know Mar
k and Emma often went to the lake.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that coincidence have struck the police?’

  ‘God knows. If it did, it didn’t seem to get them anywhere. I read the guy’s obit but there was nothing out of the ordinary, just that he’d been a “valued colleague” at the firm where he worked, and had left a wife but apparently no children. Incidentally, I’ve put an ad in the personal column, asking for information – it’ll have gone in this week’s edition. We’ll see if that opens any cans of worms.’

  He stood up and started pacing the room. ‘Watching the video again just now, something else struck me, something I’d not registered before. That barman at the pub where we had lunch said I was clutching the Donald Duck toy and Mark told him he’d won it at the fête. You see what that means, Kirsty? It must have been that last day! Perhaps we’ve been on the wrong track, and whatever it was Mark snapped was in Hawkston!’

  ‘That would widen the field!’

  ‘We need to find out exactly what they did there – who they spoke to, where they went and so on.’ He turned to look at her. ‘So – are you coming with me up to Penthwaite?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I rather think I am.’

  Adam left soon after, saying he didn’t want to take up any more of her weekend, and Kirsty, who had no firm plans, changed into her tennis whites and drove to the club. An energetic game or two would help dispel the restlessness that was plaguing her since seeing the video. Johnnie and Lois were playing doubles with Matt and Chrissie, and Kirsty saw with a sinking heart that Lance was sitting in a deckchair on the pavilion veranda.

  ‘Come and join me,’ he invited, patting the chair beside him as she went up the steps. ‘I won’t bite.’

  ‘I was hoping for a game,’ she said.

  ‘OK. I’m your man.’

  Kirsty glanced at him in surprise. In the park back in July it had taken him all his time to speak to her. Perhaps the Great Healer had been at work.

  ‘You’re on,’ she said.

  He was a strong player and they finished three hard sets before, flushed and breathless, they returned to the pavilion and joined the other four on the balcony.

  ‘Well, well!’ Chrissie murmured, as Lance went to get drinks. ‘Do we take it the romance is rekindled?’

  Kirsty flushed. ‘It was a game of tennis, that’s all.’

  ‘If you say so!’ Chrissie returned smugly.

  ‘Don’t tease, darling,’ Matt interposed and adroitly changed the subject. ‘Been on holiday, Kirsty?’

  ‘Yes, I had a couple of weeks in Barbados. It was great. How about you?’

  ‘Three weeks in Italy. We got back last weekend.’

  ‘Our holiday this year was all taken up by the honeymoon,’ Lois said. ‘With luck, we might manage a weekend in Brighton before the winter sets in!’

  Lance returned, handing Kirsty an ice-cold glass of lemonade and catching the end of the conversation. ‘Now summer’s finally arrived, I’m happy to stay put,’ he said.

  Kirsty leant back in her chair, sipping the icy liquid and letting the conversation wash over her. Here in the sunshine, surrounded by her friends, thoughts of murder and harassment seemed ludicrously unreal. Just for a while, she could fool herself that they were.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Marilyn Ferris exclaimed.

  Dean, his attention on the match, glanced at her irritably. ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s asking for information about that young couple’s murder, the summer—’ She gave a little gasp as her husband sprang out of his chair and snatched the paper from her hands.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the personal column,’ she faltered. ‘I always read it – I like the birthday messages.’

  ‘Where in the …’ His voice trailed off as he located it and read aloud: ‘Information sought concerning the murders of Mark and Emma Franklyn in Penthwaite, June 1986. Reward for information leading to conviction of perpetrators. Confidentiality guaranteed. Box number: 650817’

  ‘Fancy that coming up again, after all these years,’ Marilyn ventured, as Dean continued to stare down at the paper in his hands. He’d gone pale, she noticed with a stirring of anxiety. ‘Darling? What is it? Are you all right?’

  He didn’t reply and she came to her feet, taking hold of his arm. ‘Dean?’

  ‘Why drag that all up again?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Wasn’t it enough …?’

  He broke off and Marilyn, suddenly understanding, reached up to kiss his cheek. ‘You’re worried it’ll stir up memories of Tony’s death,’ she said, taking it as confirmation when he turned sharply to stare at her. ‘I know it happened around the same time, but it’s all right, dear, it won’t upset me. It’s a long time ago now.’

  He shook himself free of her and moved away. ‘I have to go out for a while.’

  ‘But I thought you were watching the football? You’ve been looking forward—’

  ‘I’ve just remembered something I have to do. I … shan’t be long.’

  He hurried from the room, leaving her staring after him, and it wasn’t until she heard the front door close that she realized he’d taken the paper with him.

  Alone in the car, Dean found he was shaking uncontrollably. God, what had happened? What, after all this time, had brought those terrible deaths back to public attention? His first instinct had been to speak to Barry, and he’d actually started to drive to his house before it struck him, with a crushing sense of helplessness, that he was as alone in this as he’d been twenty-six years ago. Drawing in to the side of the road, he switched off the engine and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

  Barry’s recovery had been slow, and Dean had been left to run the company single-handed, buffeted by nightmares of the missing Tony and his patent – nightmares that had intensified when, weeks later, his bloated body was finally recovered. Although Barry’s memory of the last hours before the stroke remained obliterated, Dean had considered telling him the truth on several occasions but, in his heart, he acknowledged the uselessness of it. Nevertheless, he bitterly resented the ease with which his brother had left him to deal with his nightmares alone.

  He raised his head, smoothed out the crumpled newspaper and read the advertisement again. The urgency that had driven him out of the house had evaporated, but he’d told Marilyn he had something to do, and he must fill in an appropriate amount of time. He’d drive slowly round the block before returning home and trying to pick up the threads of the match he’d abandoned.

  With a sigh he switched on the ignition, telling himself that if no suspicion had come their way at the time, none was likely to arise now, and whoever it was who was asking for information would have to accept that none was forthcoming.

  Though he’d spoken of it to no one, Barry’s memory – or what he took to be his memory – had, over the last year or so, begun to emerge from the shroud that had buried it. Sudden scenes would flash into his mind, disturbing, out of kilter, and like a dream fade before he could grasp them. He started to suffer his own nightmares, waking screaming and drenched with sweat. Vivien had insisted he see the doctor, but none of the prescribed medications had any effect.

  Something terrible had happened the day of his stroke – he was sure of it. Dean, of course, held the answer, but Barry dared not question him. His brain had blotted it out, perhaps as a defence mechanism, and God knew what might happen if he attempted to reinstate it. Recalling his state of mind immediately before his illness, it was possible that during that summer of ’eighty-six he hadn’t been entirely sane. The firm had been going down the drain, and just when salvation seemed at hand in the form of Tony’s new invention, he’d announced he was leaving and taking his patent with him. It must have been that final straw that had brought on his breakdown, frantic as he was with worry about the business, about being able to care for his family, and the shame of losing his home and removing Daphne from her private school.

  Tony. Somehow, the terrible thing was connected with Tony, who had
drowned on a fishing trip while Barry lay in hospital. And although it had, of course, been a terrible tragedy, there was no denying that his death had saved the firm. The longed-for patent had dropped into their laps, business had slowly recovered, and Ferris Engineering, of which he was chairman, was now the most prosperous firm in the area, as well as the most generous. At Dean’s instigation they had set up various funds to assist young people in the early stages of their careers, and as often as not employed them when they attained their qualifications.

  That Saturday while Dean sat brooding in his car, Barry and Vivien’s daughter and her husband called in on their way home.

  ‘Did you see that thing in the paper, about the murders?’ Daphne asked as they sat over a cup of tea.

  Vivien raised an eyebrow. ‘What murders?’

  ‘That young couple in Penthwaite, ages ago.’

  Barry’s hand unaccountably shook, and he hastily put down his cup. ‘When, exactly?’ he asked.

  ‘It was the summer you had your stroke, Dad. It was in all the papers, but since you were out of it, you probably never heard about it. They were holidaymakers, and someone bashed them both over the head and killed them. They never caught him.’

  Barry gripped the arms of his chair as his brain fumbled after a memory and immediately shied away from it.

  ‘So why drag it up again now?’ Daphne’s husband, Rob, was asking.

  She shrugged. ‘God knows, but someone’s offering a reward for information. They’ll be lucky, after all this time.’

  ‘It’s taken them long enough to get round to it,’ Rob commented. ‘Talk about cold cases – this one must be in the deep freeze!’

  ‘It was a bad summer all round,’ Vivien said reflectively, ‘what with the firm being on the brink, then Tony drowning and Dad’s stroke. I can understand the family wanting to get to the bottom of it, perhaps making one last attempt before a parent died.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Rob conceded. ‘But in my opinion, they haven’t a hope in hell.’

  The equilibrium Kirsty established that afternoon at the club was, alas, soon shattered. That night she was woken by the continuous ringing of the doorbell, and struggled up through clinging layers of sleep to heart-thumping panic. Could it possibly be Angie? The snip was down, so she wouldn’t be able to use her key. But even if she and Simon had quarrelled again, she wouldn’t come back at this time of night.