by Penny Grubb
Annie picked a notebook off the shelf at random and pulled it out. She had to grab at it to avoid it coming to pieces in her hand. The sheets were all loose.
‘Sorry, love, I should have warned you. Our Terry tore the pages loose when he’d done with them.’
Annie picked out a couple more and carefully flicked through them. From the varying thicknesses she surmised that a lot of pages had been thrown away. The final book was easy to identify. Its cover was twisted and torn, its page edges ragged and smeared with mud. It, like the others, comprised headings and a few scribbled notes. Spurn was there along with a list of village shows, the last being Milesthorpe Show just over a fortnight ago. She wondered if Terry Martin had written the report she’d glimpsed in Vince Sleeman’s paper.
‘It must have come out of his pocket when he fell,’ Bill Martin said.
The final page was torn, a few random markings around the tear suggesting its missing half had been written on. Annie looked a query at Bill.
‘We told the policeman about that,’ he said. ‘We thought it might have been destroyed on purpose with it being the only one missing, but he didn’t think there was anything in it.’
Annie looked at the book again and gave Bill a neutral smile. It had survived a fall that had killed its owner, so there wasn’t anything remarkable in its being torn. She flicked through it once more, concentrating on where the pages fitted into the spine and felt a glimmer of surprise. Bill Martin was right. That last half page was the only piece completely missing.
CHAPTER 3
ANNIE DIDN’T HURRY back to Hull. The roadside signs with their nationally recognizable camera icons were a useful excuse to keep her speed down. She wanted the time to think. How should she report to Pat? The Martins had cancelled the job, but Pat, who could easily have called Annie up and told her to turn back, must have decided to let her have a go at keeping them on board. And how far had she succeeded in that? Only insofar as they’d given her the DVD to watch.
It wasn’t just her own need to carve out a useful role that drove her, but also the need she’d identified within the Martins. As things stood, they would never move on, not a millimetre from the huge frayed end that was their son’s death. His funeral wouldn’t bring closure. Maybe nothing would, but the only chance they had was to find out why Terry had gone where he’d gone the night he died and just what had happened there.
Annie felt a flicker of pride. Her instinct had led her away from the direct questioning she’d gone out there for and, as a result, she’d made a real connection with the Martins. Martha with her granite features, her hard outer shell that repelled all offers of sympathy and help, had to a tiny extent allowed Annie in. Her spontaneous comment about Spurn Point had been the trigger.
Could she explain any of this to Pat? And would the Martins give the go-ahead for a full investigation into the circumstances of Terry’s death? If they did, would she find anything beyond the official version? Had his fall ripped half a page from his notebook? But she knew nothing of the physical circumstances of his accident, had no parameters on which to pin a theory about how a notebook might tear.
She’d packed a lot of baggage into agreeing to watch this DVD and report back on it. Would Pat say she’d overstepped her delegated authority? Idle imaginings over the years had danced around what her first autonomous decision as a PI might be, but her wildest guesses had never come close to this.
As she drew up outside the flat, her mind rested briefly on Bill’s words about the ‘young lad’ who’d given Martha Pat’s number. Who was he? Why Pat’s number and not the agency’s?
Pat, from her accustomed position slumped in the cushions of the big settee, pulled herself upright and greeted Annie with a hard stare, her tone sharp. ‘Why did you turn your phone off? I expect to be able to contact you any time when you’re working for me. If you need your phone off, you tell me so I know. If you’re out in the field and I can’t contact you, it might be a sign you’re in trouble. I could have had the troops out looking for you.’
‘But I didn’t. I …’ Annie scrabbled through her pockets for her phone and pulled it out. A blank screen looked up at her. ‘Oh hell, I’m sorry, I don’t know how that happened. I must have caught it by mistake.’
She sent up a silent prayer and held her breath as she pushed the on-switch. The phone flickered to life with a tinny jingle. Her phone had been on the blink for weeks, but just trust it to let her down now.
‘The Martin woman rang the moment you were out of the door,’ Pat said. ‘Could have saved a journey if you’d had the blasted thing on.’
Annie realized the phone hadn’t let her down at all. She rubbed its casing like a good luck charm as she put it back in her pocket.
Pat sighed and shifted position. ‘OK then, how did you get on? Did you manage to talk them into giving you the job?’
‘Well, sort of.’
‘Go on.’
Annie outlined the events of the visit as accurately as she could, trying to give Pat a feel for the ambiance, the sense that the Martins really did need this job to be done. She looked out over the river as she spoke. The water spread out calm and smooth, just the twists and turns of the sunlight dancing on the surface giving a hint of the turbulent currents beneath. She felt as though she’d seen those shafts of sunlight dancing on the grave Terry Martin wouldn’t inhabit until tomorrow, but of course tiny snags disturbed the surface of the calmest settings at times. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Pat let her finish her account before she held her hand out for the DVD. When Annie passed it to her, she held it up to the light and twisted it from side to side. ‘It’s been well-handled,’ was her verdict.
Annie imagined Bill and Martha clutching it as though it were some precious silver coin whose currency they didn’t understand, studying it from every angle, wondering what to do with it. The last link to their son’s life and one more segment still hidden from them.
‘And you think you can get a job out of them on the back of this?’
‘Yes, I’ve a good chance. I made a connection with them. I don’t think they’ve got anyone else.’
‘I’ll make a copy of it when I go through.’ Pat nodded her head towards her bedroom. ‘Keep the original as untouched as possible when you work with anything like this. You realize what you’ve done, don’t you? If you’re to have a chance of talking them round, it’ll have to be face to face. You’ve committed us to another round trip to Withernsea. Vince and his cheap labour. Huh!’
Annie noted Pat’s comments with interest. Equipment that would copy a DVD must mean a PC and access to e-mail and internet when she needed them.
‘Right then, the funeral,’ Pat went on. ‘What time is it? Where?’
Annie closed her eyes to recall the Martins’ hallway so she could retrieve the details she’d read on the tiny card and recite them to Pat.
‘Nine o’clock in the morning? You’d better leave by eight. The traffic’ll be bad.’
‘You want me to go?’
‘Oh yeah. You show your face at the funeral. Make sure you look sad, caring, all that kind of stuff. Check who turns up. With luck there won’t be many there so you’ll stand out for making the effort. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself, but talk to whoever’s there, see what you can find out. Then, when you contact the Martins, you’ll be in a stronger position to ease them into agreeing to the job. We’ll give them a day or two. I hope you’ve something suitable to wear.’
‘Uh … yes. Yes, I have.’ She’d brought every stitch she owned. ‘By the way, I asked Bill Martin how come he’d chosen to contact you.’ Annie told Pat about the young lad whose name Bill didn’t know, who had passed on Pat’s number.
Pat looked blank. ‘No idea. I suppose he must have seen the advert.’
The advert? Any adverts would surely have the agency number not Pat’s. Annie looked the question at Pat who shrugged.
‘I shoved an advert in one of the local rags a couple of weeks ago. Mrs Earle was t
he only answer I got, until yesterday that is when Martha Martin rang. I only needed the one. I wasn’t expecting anything after the first couple of days. Those things have a short shelf-life and it was only a one-off. Maybe this kid, whoever he was, had the page wrapped round some chips or something.’
‘But why did you put the advert in? Surely the agency advertises.’
‘I was having a go at Vince, if you must know, giving him a nudge.’
‘About what?’
‘About the work he was passing on to me. Nothing you need worry about.’
‘Did it work?’
‘Well, who knows? I went and picked this thing up.’ Pat gave a nod towards her leg. ‘We’ll see when I’m up and about. And don’t get the wrong idea: Vince is OK, just needs a nudge now and then. We’re OK, me and Vince.’
Annie knew she’d get no more by direct questioning. She changed tack and asked, ‘How did it happen? Your leg, I mean.’
‘I fell down some stairs. Going too fast, not taking care. I probably slipped.’
‘Probably?’
‘I slipped, OK?’
‘The stairs here?’
‘No.’
‘It looks to be a nasty break.’
‘It is, but I can manage.’
‘That’s what Vince brought me here for, isn’t it? It wasn’t to cover for your cases; it was to look after you.’
Pat gave a mirthless laugh. ‘It took me about two seconds to suss him. And I’ll tell you this, if I’d seen so much as a hint in you of this caring bollocks I’d have had you down those stairs so fast you’d have broken both bloody legs!’
‘But you could have got someone in from round here if you’d needed anyone.’
‘Which is just the point I can’t get across. I don’t need anyone. I can look after myself. I can’t abide people fussing about. It’s not only Vince behind this; it’ll be Babs, too, though she denies it. Someone to cover the work was a different matter. I agreed to that. Just didn’t expect him to land me with a houseguest.’
Babs? Annie remembered the name she’d seen on the company papers. Babs must be Barbara Caldwell. She wouldn’t query the name immediately in case a flicker of guilt at her snooping showed through. ‘Is that why he picked me, because I’d have to live in? I mean I could have found somewhere to rent for the six weeks.’
‘Could you? On what Vince is paying you? Or are you rich enough not to have to worry?’
It was too good an opportunity to miss. Annie confessed her parlous financial circumstances. ‘It’s the car that worries me,’ she ended. ‘When it needs petrol I’m not sure I’ve enough cash to fill a tank that size. I don’t want to risk my card. It’s right at its limit.’
Pat’s laugh this time was genuine. ‘Broke enough to have to live in, desperate to get PI experience and, on Vince’s scale, an airhead. Do you think he knew all that before he saw you?’
She felt herself colour up, remembering the chatty conversation she’d walked in on as Kara passed on her life story to a stranger who’d rung to arrange an interview. ‘Yes, I’m sure he did.’
‘Then I imagine he just stumbled upon you and snapped you up. They knew I wouldn’t have anyone in to look after me, but I wasn’t going to object to someone in to cover the work. Anyway you’re here, Vince is paying, and there are a couple of cases for you to get your teeth into. If you try any of the caring malarkey, mind, you’ll be out quicker than you came.’
‘A couple of cases?’
‘Yes, I had a call from Mrs Earle on Orchard Park. She wants to know why the hell no one’s been back to see her.’
‘But Vince said—’
‘I know, but he can’t have cancelled the job, so maybe he’s changed his mind. Oh, and that doesn’t mean we need to go blabbing to him about it.’
Annie digested this. A nub of excitement grew inside her. From nebulous bits of jobs that might evaporate and leave her in limbo, things were beginning to look up. And what was this thing between Pat and Vince? Pat might say the two of them were OK, but her words were a clear warning to Annie that they would do this behind Vince’s back. ‘Vince expected you to cancel the Orchard Park job, didn’t he?’
Pat tossed her a sideways glance. ‘He told me it was cancelled. Not my fault if no one told the client. I’ve said you’ll go round tomorrow. Give her a ring on your way back from Terry Martin’s funeral to make sure she’s there. She’s horribly unreliable.’
The funeral the next morning was a quiet affair. Annie arrived ahead of the coffin to see only a thin sprinkling of others in the church. Three young girls sat near the back where they whispered and stifled occasional giggles. An elderly couple sat midway down; the man pulled continually at his shirt collar and cast worried glances at the woman beside him.
Just settling into a pew at the back was a tall woman about Annie’s age, her small features framed by mid-length dark hair. There was something graceful about the way she moved as she tried to create more legroom, yet she looked ungainly too. Annie identified the awkwardness as her clothes. She wore a tweedy suit more suited to someone Martha Martin’s age and far too fussy a style for her majestic form.
She was an obvious initial target. Annie slid into the seat next to her, gave her a nod of acknowledgement and whispered, ‘Are you here for Terry Martin’s funeral?’
‘Yes, I am. You too?’
‘Yes.’ Annie held out her hand. ‘I’m Annie Raymond. How d’you do?’
The woman looked surprised but returned Annie’s handshake. ‘Jennifer Flanagan.’
‘Were you a friend of Terry’s?’
‘Oh no, I never met him … um … saw him until he was … well, you know … dead. I was involved the night he died. I’m a police officer. Did you know him well?’
Bang on target, thought Annie, as she replied, ‘I didn’t know him at all. I’m a private investigator working for his parents.’ It felt good to label herself.
‘Working for the Martins?’ Jennifer said, an edge of suspicion shading her tone. ‘Is it about what happened?’
‘Well, no, not really.’ Annie back-pedalled, realizing that good though it had felt to boast about her profession, it hadn’t been a smart first move. You’ll meet suspicion, she’d been told often enough, if you dip your toes into police territory or anywhere that might muddy their waters. ‘Mr and Mrs Martin have just employed our agency to look at some of Terry’s things. Were you in charge of the investigation into his death?’
Jennifer gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh no. I’m only a probationer. PC Greaves – he’s my tutor – says it’s good public relations to show your face at this sort of thing. I went with him to answer the emergency call.’
So there had been two of them, despite Pat’s assessment. ‘Not the sort of call you want, is it? A body on your watch. Did you know it was an accident when you went out there?’
‘Frankly, we didn’t know what we were going to. The old man who found him was in a terrible state. From the message we didn’t know if he’d found a dead cat or unearthed a massacre.’
Jennifer would assume the Martins had provided the facts about the night Terry died, so wouldn’t mind speaking about things she thought Annie already knew. Aiming a bow at a venture, she nodded to the pews opposite. ‘What’s-his-name over there, you mean?’
Jennifer followed the line of Annie’s gaze and looked at the nervy man the other side of the church who bent over on the wooden seat, a few silver strands of hair stretched across his otherwise smooth scalp. ‘Charles Tremlow. Yes, that’s right.’
While they watched, the man pulled again at his collar and gave a hunted look at the woman next to him. Annie made a lightning character assessment and chanced a further comment. ‘I’m surprised he made the call. He looks the sort who’d just panic.’
‘Oh, you’re right. He didn’t call us straight away. He called a friend.’
A friend? ‘Oh? I thought she was there,’ Annie murmured, looking at the woman beside Tremlow.
‘Yes, she was.
She went round for some reason of her own, but he’d already called Ludgrove. And, of course, by the time we got there, we had three of them to deal with and all with a different story.’
Annie mentally filed this and risked a question that displayed her ignorance. ‘Isn’t she his wife?’
‘Oh no. He isn’t married. I think he’s divorced. She’s just … well, to be honest I think she’s just the village busybody.’
Annie itched to ask for the woman’s name and address. Milesthorpe’s resident busybody who’d been on the spot the night Terry died was just the sort of contact she needed, but the question would signal a fishing trip too clearly, and she reminded herself that she didn’t yet have the job of looking into Terry’s death. Instead, she asked Jennifer, ‘Were you one of the ones who went to see the Martins that night?’
Jennifer nodded. ‘It was awful. It’s the first time I’ve done anything like that. You learn how to break bad news and what you should do, but the reality was nothing like it. I wasn’t the one doing the talking, but I thought I’d be able to give some support.’
‘Were you with PC Greaves, the one you mentioned before?’
‘No, another colleague went with me to the Martins. PC Kerridge. I was glad about that. PC Greaves isn’t … well, he’s not the most sympathetic man I’ve met.’
Three of them involved on the night, Annie noted. Positively over-staffed from what Pat had told her. ‘It’s terrible the way it’s hit them, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, and they don’t seem to have anyone. They wouldn’t let us call anyone. He was just stunned. It was as though we’d hit him so hard we’d barely left him conscious. I felt I could have reached him somehow, said something, but he didn’t seem to be with us at all. And she brought down the shutters like nothing I’ve ever seen. She made me feel we were prying, like some sort of ghoulish voyeurs.’
Annie could see from Jennifer’s expression that her encounter with the Martins still preyed on her. ‘I can imagine it,’ she said. ‘It took some hard work for me to make a dent and I had the advantage that they’d invited me in.’ Hard work? No, just a lucky break. And maybe this was another one. Pat had asked Martha a few questions over the phone and had no useful replies. Pat assumed Martha knew the detail of what had happened but had been too upset to talk about it. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t just that she couldn’t bear to talk, she hadn’t been able to ask either. ‘They didn’t ask you anything, did they?’
