‘That would be really kind.’
I manage the urgent e-mails and a quick call to Ellie and then run off to take my literature class. We are studying Pinter’s The Caretaker, which is fun and they like the idea that they are studying a play by a Nobel laureate, but I do worry about sending our foreign students home all talking in repetitions and non sequiturs – not to mention the pauses, of course.
At four o’clock I go across to the SCR, where Diane is dispensing tea at the buttery hatch. She makes conspiratorial signals at me and I slip in through the door into the kitchen, where a woman who looks nothing like the cleaning lady of the popular imagination is sitting drinking black tea. Renée Deakin is about ten years younger than me, slim, dark and polished; she is wearing trim black trousers and a v-neck red sweater, with matching mouth and nails. I am momentarily intimidated, as I always am by this degree of gloss, but I accept a cup of tea from Diane and go and join her.
‘I’m Gina Gray,’ I say. ‘You must be Renée. I do hope you don’t mind talking to me.’
She gives me a wan smile. ‘That’s all right. I don’t seem to be able to talk about anything else at the moment anyway. Diane says your daughter taught Marina. Well, I expect she’ll have told you, she was a lovely girl. A bit strange – old fashioned – but a real sweetheart. She was the one that kept that family going. I don’t know how they’re going to manage without her.’
‘Really?’ I am genuinely surprised.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I think Glenys is a wonderful actress, and Mr Carson, he’s a very clever writer, I’m sure, but they’re not practical people, you know what I mean? Nothing would ever get mended in that house if I didn’t get my husband to go in and see to it. I don’t think either of them knows how to work the washing machine. I’m not sure they know where the supermarket is.’
‘But Marina can’t have done all the washing and shopping, can she?’
‘Oh no.’ She laughs. ‘I wouldn’t want you to run off with the idea that she was Cinderella. No, I do the washing on a Monday, ironing Wednesday, supermarket shop on Friday. To tell you the truth, there’s not that much cleaning to do, with Mr Carson out in his shed most of the time and Edmund away at school, so I don’t mind. But Marina, she used to make a breakfast tray for her mum every morning before she went off to school. She’d leave it outside her room for when she woke up. Sometimes she’d pick a little bunch of flowers to put on the tray. There’s not many kids would do that. And then in the evening she’d cook her dad’s supper.’
‘She did all the cooking?’
‘Well, I make a good lunch for Glenys on the days I’m in and then she just has a snack in her dressing room before the show, but Marina cooks – cooked for her dad. It seemed hard, so sometimes I’d make something she could just heat in the oven. She’d always leave me a nice little note, thanking me. And when she was home in the school holidays, she’d follow me around. “You always make the house look so nice, Renée,” she’d say.’
‘Have you worked for the family long?’
‘About a year. Since they came back from abroad. My mum used to clean for them before, but she didn’t feel up to it when they got back. I was looking for something to do. My youngest was just starting school and I wanted something part-time, so I’d be free to pick them up and so on. I was a dentist’s receptionist before I had the boys, but I didn’t want to go back to it – long hours and no school holidays – so I thought I’d try this. I’ve always been a bit stage-struck, to tell you the truth – I do quite a bit with Marlbury Operatic – and I quite fancied working for Glenys Summers.’
‘What’s she like to work for?’
‘Oh ever so nice. Said to me on the first day, “Do call me Glenys.” Never criticises or anything. “That’s lovely, Renée,” she says, that’s all. I don’t think she notices really. Well, her life’s in the theatre, isn’t it?’
‘Diane told me about the call you had on Wednesday morning. You really didn’t suspect that it wasn’t Glenys Summers?’
She shakes her head.
‘It’s so stupid, isn’t it? It sounded just like her – except with a cold. It wasn’t so much her voice but the way she talked. “Oh Renée,” she said, “I’m utterly miserable.” That’s the way she is – theatrical. Then she said she’d broken her ankle and she’d got a bad cold and her understudy could do the show and she was staying in bed. “I love you dearly Renée,” she said, “but I really don’t want you and the monster hoover battering at my peace today. Why don’t you take yourself off to the Wednesday market and look for bargains. You don’t usually get the chance.” I’m sorry.’ Her face crumples and she pulls a wad of tissues out of her bag and blows her nose. ‘I just feel so guilty about it, you see. When she rang at half past twelve and said, “Renée where on earth are you?” I was so flustered. I said I’d come in right away, of course, but she said not to bother. Well, I was having a bit of a clear out in my kitchen – stuff all over the place – so I was glad not to go in. But I should have insisted, and then I’d have been there and – well –’
And you might have got pushed down the stairs, I think, but I say, ‘I suppose her mother must feel the same. If she’d been there it would all have been different.’
‘I’d no idea she was going to go off to London,’ she says. ‘I stopped off at the Hall on my way to pick up the boys – just to see if I could get her anything – but I saw a car there and I thought if she’s got visitors I’d better not intrude. It’s usually people from the theatre – the Aphra Behn – who call there. She lets them keep scenery – flats and stage cloths and that – in the old stables. So I just drove off. I realise now -’ she rummages for a dry tissue ‘- it was probably Dr Fletcher’s car. It must have been just about when he found her. If I’d gone in I’d have seen – well, I’d have seen her.’ She looks up at me. ‘I’d have seen her.’
I’d have seen her. That’s the picture I’ve been working hard at keeping out of my head. It’s enough that the fall is in there, playing itself in an endless loop; I can’t allow myself to picture the dying. I get to my feet, thank Renée and Diane and go.
I have errands to do in town on my way home: a couple of books to pick up from Waterstones, shoes from the mender’s, cash from the cash point. I’m not paying attention, though, and I have to retrace my steps twice. I’m thinking about that phone call. You could tell that Renée Deakin does a bit of acting because she got Glenys Summers’ voice just right when she told me what her caller had said: “Oh Renée, I’m utterly miserable.” She got that old-fashioned diction, that high, clear tone. But actually, it’s the words, not the accent that jumped up and hit me: “I don’t want you and the monster hoover battering at my peace today.” It’s a quote, “battering at my peace,” and it’s from Macbeth. When Macduff is down in England trying to stir the torpid Malcolm into action against Macbeth, he gets a visit from the Thane of Ross, hot from Scotland to tell him that his wife and children have all been savagely slaughtered by Macbeth. Only Ross can’t bring himself to spit it out, so Macduff keeps asking questions: “How does my wife? And all my children? The tyrant has not battered at their peace?” And poor old Ross, with terrible dramatic irony, tells him, “No, they were well at peace when I did leave them.” It’s not a run-of-the-mill expression, “battered at their peace,” is it? Anyone who uses it has to have Macbeth in their head somewhere. And it’s about the murder of innocents, that’s the chilling thing. Surely the caller had to have that in her head somewhere, didn’t she? Well, it’s a pretty cultured class of burglar/burglar’s accomplice we’re looking for, which is interesting. I’d be surprised, in fact, if Glenys Summers herself quotes from Macbeth a lot, but that’s because I’m snobbish about musicals. The people I’m really wondering about are these people from the theatre that Renée Deakin mentioned, the people who had regular access to Charter Hall and would know everything that was going on. They’d be likely to know Macbeth, wouldn’t they? And it’s when you’ve actually performed in pla
ys that the words burrow into your brain and nest there on a permanent basis. They do the same if you’ve studied them for an exam. I’m pretty sure Macbeth was a set text when I taught David Scott A-level English twenty-five years ago. I wonder if he spotted the quote.
I’m having all these thoughts as I collect books, shoes and cash in an abstracted sort of way, and then I’m ready to cycle home, only I think I’ll pop into The County Hotel to use the loo first. The powder room at The County Hotel is my convenience of choice when I’m out in town. It is warm and scented and offers little individual hand towels and hand cream as well as soap. If you walk confidently through reception and don’t look too chavvy, no-one challenges you, so I stride in now and am heading off in a loo-ward direction when a lift door opens to the left of me and a woman steps out.
I recognise her immediately but can hardly believe it. It’s Glenys Summers, in the flesh. I falter for a moment. I feel, ridiculously, that I should say something – how can you simply walk past a woman whose child has just been killed? – but of course I know I shouldn’t, so I recover myself and walk on a bit faster. I’m impressed, from that brief glance, by how together she looks: pale, admittedly, and her face closed and wary, but on her feet, taking a lift, existing in the world. I can’t begin to imagine how it must feel to lose a child, but I think if it were me, if I lost Ellie or Annie or Freda, I would just want some intravenous narcotic that would keep me out of the world forever. I can’t imagine choosing what clothes to wear, washing my hair, eating, pressing lift buttons, talking, thinking.
I’ve almost reached the loos when I hear a disturbance behind me and I turn back to see that she is now being embraced: a boy in the uniform of Marlbury Abbey School has his arms round her and is hugging her tight. I can’t tear myself away; I have to stand and gawp. He is taller than her and as he pulls out of the embrace, she gazes up at him. This must be Edmund, Marina’s brother. I’d forgotten about him. This can’t be the first time they’ve seen each other since Marina died, can it? And where is father? Upstairs perhaps, in their hotel room, on an intravenous narcotic.
Cycling home, I turn my mind to the most disturbing discovery from my conversation with Renée Deakin: Colin Fletcher found Marina dead. Why? What was he doing at Charter Hall? In the middle of the afternoon? When no-one was there? I have to talk to Eve. I shall ring her when I get home.
8
FRIDAY 24th SEPTEMBER
09.30: TEAM MEETING
Was the traffic worse than usual? Probably not. It was just his mood that was worse, and the cause of that, he knew, was a crack-of-dawn phone call from Gina Gray. What the hell did she think she was playing at? She’d walked out of his life, cut him off without a word, and now here she was, picking up the phone and asking favours – favours, for God’s sake – as though nothing had happened. He ground the gears and swore. He’d been rattled by how hurt he’d been at getting dropped by her – he’d mooned about like a teenager for a while. Pathetic. It wasn’t as though they’d ever actually got together, but he’d thought that there was a possibility and she obviously hadn’t. And now she felt entitled to phone him at home at 7.30 in the morning and ask him to compromise a murder inquiry. Well, she wasn’t getting any favours.
Paula Powell was in the incident room with a scattering of others. She was busy writing on a whiteboard; a photo of Marina Carson was up on display. Powell was his senior DS now after recent changes. He had a newcomer in the team: Andy Finnegan, newly promoted to DS – quiet at the moment but with a good track record. Steve Boxer had been with him for three years now – great with the IT stuff but without the all round qualities to go any further, probably. Powell, though, might go a long way if she didn’t put too many backs up. She was learning, biding her time, only making a fuss about the force’s ingrained male chauvinism when it really mattered. She was a good detective and he would have been happy to let her take the lead on this case if it hadn’t turned into a murder inquiry. Anyway, he was glad to have her beside him.
‘Do you want to do the update, Paula,’ he asked, ‘before we start considering options?’
‘OK.’ If she was surprised, she showed it only by the slightest flicker. ‘Listen up, guys,’ she called as the rest of the team started streaming in. ‘No time to lose.’ She pointed at the photo on the wall. ‘New info since yesterday. We’ve got the PM results now and they confirm that Marina died between one and two on Wednesday afternoon. And she was murdered – that’s definite – first pushed down the stairs and then hit over the head by a blow which fractured her skull.’
‘Have we got the weapon?’ a voice asked.
‘A golf club. It came from a bag of clubs that was lying near the foot of the stairs. Marina’s brother plays golf, apparently. The killer made no real attempt to hide it. It was put back in the bag.’
‘Any sexual assault?’ a voice asked.
‘No.’ She pointed to the white board. ‘We know that she caught a bus from outside the William Roper School just after one o’clock and got off the bus in Lower Shepton at twenty past – we’ve talked to the bus driver, who remembers her and doesn’t remember any other school kids being with her. Unless she diverted on the ten-minute walk home, she’ll have got home at about half past. We’ve now got alibis for all the family. Father, Hector, is a writer and was doing some research in the abbey library. He’s a regular there and several people saw him that afternoon. The seventeen-year-old brother, Edmund, is a weekly boarder at Marlbury Abbey School and was definitely in classes. The mother, Glenys, the actress, was in London. She caught the 13.33 train from Shepton Halt. The train manager saw her on the train – he’s a fan apparently – and she went to The Duchess of York’s Theatre. The ushers say she was definitely there. She’s supposed to be in the show but she’d had an accident and sprained her ankle, so her understudy was doing her part.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘She fell down the stairs.’ Scott watched as she raised her hands and voice to quell the hubbub. ‘Yeah, yeah, it looks like more than a coincidence. Now here’s the thing. Marina’s parents think the mother was the intended target. That whoever pushed Marina thought it was her mother. This show she’s in – Amy – has anyone seen it? No? Well, apparently the character she plays is pushed down the stairs and killed. They think someone – some deranged fan – was trying to kill her in the same way.’ She stopped and looked at Scott. ‘Do you want to take over here, guv? I think we’re into options now.’
‘Yes. Thanks, Paula. OK. Now, on Wednesday morning, Renée Deakin, the Carson’s cleaner, claims she got a phone call telling her not to go in and clean that day. Steve, do we have the number the call was made from?’
‘It was made from a public phone box. The box outside the post office in Lower Shepton.’
‘Must be the only unvandalised phone box in the county,’ a voice commented.
Above the laughter, Scott said, ‘We need to talk to the postmaster and anyone else who was in the shops there. See if they saw anyone using the box. It’s a pretty unusual sight these days.’
‘I’ve done it, sir.’ Sarah Shepherd raised a hand, blushing. ‘DS Finnegan asked me to look into it. The postmaster saw a woman go into the box at about that time. Not a local, he thought. Dark hair, wearing a tracksuit and sunglasses. He noticed the sunglasses. Unusual for nine o’clock on a September morning.’
‘Any description of a car?’
‘No car, he thought.’
‘Renée Deakin’s got dark hair,’ Paula said, ‘and she lives five minutes’ walk away from the village shops.’
‘You mean she could have made a call to her own number and invented the conversation?’
‘But it wouldn’t show up on the Deakins’ phone record if it wasn’t answered,’ a voice objected.
‘It would,’ Steve Boxer returned, ‘if it went to answerphone.’
‘We need to talk to her neighbours. Find out about her movements. Do it carefully, though, Paula. We don’t want to flag her up as a
suspect when she may be perfectly innocent.’ Scott picked up a board writer and moved to a white board. ‘Obviously, a call like that could have been designed to make sure the house was empty so it could be burgled, but the Carsons don’t think anything was stolen and if Renée Deakin’s telling the truth, then it wasn’t a burglary they had in mind. The caller mentioned the injured ankle, so she knew that Glenys Summers – Carson – wouldn’t be performing that afternoon. So, it points to her – if the woman was working alone – or someone else wanting to find Glenys alone in the house – after Hector Carson left for Marlbury late morning, and before Marina got home from school. So let’s consider this theory first – the Carsons’ own theory. Can anyone see any flaws in it?’
‘Do we know if the cleaner went in every day?’ Steve Boxer asked. ‘Wouldn’t there have been another time when she’d have been alone in the house, without all the business of the phone call?’
‘Three days a week she goes in,’ Scott said, ‘but there’s a bit more to it. This show Glenys Summers is in, it’s based on a true story – 16th century. I won’t bore you with the history but her giving the staff the day off does fit the story.’
‘So who killed the real woman?’ Andy Finnegan asked. ‘It’d help to know that, wouldn’t it, if we’re thinking it’s some sort of copycat killing?’
‘It remains a mystery, but the rumour was it was her husband.’
‘So someone was setting up Hector Carson?’
‘Possibly. Any other comments on this line of inquiry?’
‘Could anyone really have mistaken a thirteen-year-old for a grown woman?’ one of the DCs asked. ‘Wasn’t she in school uniform for a start?’
‘The uniform’s black trousers and a white shirt,’ Paula said. ‘She’d taken her blazer off. From the back it wouldn’t look like a uniform.’
‘But the killer would have seen her close to when he or she hit her with the club, surely?’
All the Daughters Page 8
