by Rebecca Tope
‘People,’ said Caz, pointing with her pencil at the opening into the next field where the dead Juliet had been lying three days earlier.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Luc’s wheelchair was bumping awkwardly over the grass, followed by Clovis, whose face was rather red. Now and then, he helped the chair over a bump but, mostly, Luc was propelling it for himself. Kate came not far behind. Luc was talking urgently, turning his head to address his mother and brother. It was too far for the three women to hear his words, but his listeners were obviously paying close attention.
‘That’s them,’ said Thea, watching the magnetic features of the older brother, and noting that there were no longer any internal flutterings as a result. Instead, she regarded him with suspicion, remembering her various encounters with him, and their effects on her. What exactly was he? A hollow sham? A genuinely engaged and concerned son and brother? An angry resentful son of a neglectful father? All and any seemed possible, along with several others. Was he, just possibly, a murderer? And why had they gone for a muddy walk in an empty field? Suspicion was slow to dawn, and uncomfortable to entertain, but she did her best not to dodge it.
‘Them?’ echoed Gladwin.
It was too late for muttered explanations. The small group gathered speed once they were in the well-mown burial field, and were soon only twenty feet away. ‘Mrs Slocombe,’ Clovis said, with a warm smile. ‘Back again?’
‘These are police detectives,’ said Thea boldly. ‘They’re investigating the murder of Juliet Wilson.’
‘Blimey, Thea,’ snapped Gladwin. ‘Think before you speak, will you?’
‘Big J,’ said Luc, with a downward glance to suggest sorrow. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘What were you doing through there?’ Gladwin asked. ‘That’s where the body was found. Did you – or one of you, at least – know that already?’
Thea had been silenced by the detective superintendent’s reproach. She didn’t see what she’d done wrong – police protocol required that officers make themselves known before speaking to anyone associated with an investigation. But there were probably plenty of exceptions, in practice. Much must depend on timing and context. Had she done it deliberately to warn Clovis, she asked herself.
‘Could I have your names?’ Gladwin went on, before anybody could answer her first question.
‘I’m Kate Dalrymple, and these are my sons, Clovis and Luc Biddulph. Luc is spelt L-U-C. The French way.’ She watched as Caz duly wrote in her notebook. ‘We were just stretching our legs. And Luc knew Juliet Wilson, so he wanted to see where she died. We none of us know the exact spot, but Mrs Slocombe had given us a fair idea.’
‘Why are you here?’ Gladwin glanced warningly at Thea, whose instinct had been to repeat her earlier explanation.
‘We learnt that this is the place where my first husband was to be buried, and that his current wife was anxious for us to stay away. We were not given the exact day and time for the burial, so chose to camp here until it happened.’ Kate spoke with clear formality, her face betraying no emotion. ‘The current Mrs Biddulph was informed of our presence and has cancelled the funeral as a result. Or so we’re told. We decided to hang on until the end of today, in case that was a bluff.’
‘But you did know Juliet Wilson?’ Gladwin looked at Luc.
‘She pushed me around the grounds at Paxford, and we chatted quite a lot. I was very fond of her. It came as a great shock to hear that she was dead.’
‘Could you give any account of why she might have been here last week?’
‘Not really. She knew my father had died, and she might have been curious to see where he was going to be buried. She never met him, of course. I haven’t seen him myself for over thirty years. But I showed her a picture of him as he was then. She said I was exactly like him.’
‘You are,’ said Kate. ‘It’s uncanny.’
‘So Lawrence must be as well, because he looks like you,’ said Thea. ‘You’ve got the same long cheeks and thick black eyebrows.’
‘We’ve never seen him,’ said Kate shortly.
Clovis gave her a look. ‘He’s no oil painting, if he’s like Luc,’ he said with a mock punch at his brother’s shoulder.
‘It’s character that matters,’ said Kate. ‘Not that we know anything about Lawrence’s character.’
Gladwin was observing all this with an expression of impatient disbelief. People did not normally behave in so relaxed a manner when in the presence of a senior police detective. Thea concluded that the Biddulphs, like her, could see no reason to associate themselves with the killing of Juliet Wilson. The image of Anthony Spiller came to mind – why had the idiot called the police that morning, anyway? Surely he couldn’t seriously think there was any threat to his Uncle Dicky’s grave?
‘Nancy Spiller might have known Juliet as well,’ she said aloud, following a thread that felt important. ‘They called her “Big J” at Paxford, so when I talked about Juliet, it didn’t ring any bells.’
‘What?’ Gladwin’s impatience burgeoned. ‘What are you talking about now?’
‘Sorry. But don’t you think the Paxford Centre must be the key? All roads seem to lead to it, one way or another.’
‘Do they?’
‘It’s possible that she met somebody else there, who lives hereabouts, which would explain where she was last week. I mean – if she stayed at their house without telling anybody.’
‘A boyfriend, you mean?’ It was Caz Barkley who voiced this question.
‘I wasn’t thinking that, actually, but it’s feasible, I suppose. And we shouldn’t forget Adam Rogers.’ Little lights were going on inside her head. ‘What if he found out that she was seeing somebody else and got jealous? He thinks he’s her boyfriend.’
‘We know he wasn’t here on Saturday morning,’ said Gladwin. ‘Thanks to that tracker he wears.’
‘Yes, but does he wear it all the time? He’s not obliged to, after all. He could easily just take it off and leave it in his room, so people think that’s where he is.’
‘Oh,’ said Gladwin. ‘Silly me.’ She glared at Barkley. ‘Why didn’t anybody think of that?’
Caz glared back, entirely unintimidated.
‘Can we be excused, do you think?’ Kate Dalrymple asked. ‘It’s nearly eleven, so if nothing happens in the next half-hour, we’ll be on our way. It’s been very nice to meet you,’ she said to Thea, with an odd little smile. ‘I think you’ve made rather a hit with Clovis.’
Thea felt herself flushing and could think of nothing to say.
‘Stop it, Mama. You’ve embarrassed her. She’s married, don’t forget.’ Clovis was in full charm mode, giving Thea one of his most intense eye-to-eye gazes. ‘Which, I agree, is rather a pity.’
‘You ought to be married yourself,’ Thea blurted, casting caution to the winds. ‘I bet there’s a girlfriend somewhere, at least.’
‘Actually, no, there isn’t. It’s an awful cliché, but I still haven’t met the right girl. I’ve left all that to Luc. He went in for the whole package, a while ago now. He’s even got two grown-up kids to show for it.’
‘Clovis likes his freedom,’ said Luc, with a complicated glare at his brother. ‘The land is littered with hearts he’s broken. He might not look much like our French granny, but he’s outrageously Gallic most of the time.’
Gladwin flapped a hand, demanding silence, again confounded by the irrelevant banter that ignored her presence. ‘No, don’t go yet,’ she said, trying to sound authoritative. ‘I need to know more about the place in Paxford. The main thing we gleaned from the people there is that everyone adored Juliet.’
Luc and Thea both nodded miserably as this oft-repeated remark.
Gladwin went on, ‘Her mother said the same thing. She said she’d trust anybody from the centre, and had made sure she knew most of them personally.’
‘Rosa went there as well?’
‘Very much so. As a volunteer. Although not for the past six month
s or so. She’s had a bothersome knee, which kept her indoors a lot over the winter.’
‘I never saw anybody called Rosa,’ said Luc. ‘Who is she?’
‘Juliet’s mother,’ said Thea.
‘I see. Well, I wouldn’t take her endorsement as gospel. A lot changes in six months. People come and go all the time. Did you say something about a Nancy Spiller?’ he asked Thea.
‘That’s right. You know her as well?’
He was evidently uncomfortable in his chair, shifting his upper body increasingly and biting his lower lip. ‘A bit,’ he said, before looking up at Clovis. ‘Clove – can we … you know?’
‘Oops!’ Clovis grabbed the handles of the chair and swivelled it round to face the camper van. ‘Left that late, didn’t we?’
‘Damn it,’ said Kate, throwing an angry look at Gladwin. ‘Quick, boys. Lucky we left the ramp down.’
Enlightenment dawned slowly, with Caz the first to understand what was happening. ‘Toilet issues,’ she muttered, as Clovis hurtled his brother into the vehicle. ‘Must be awkward in that little space.’
‘Impossible, surely?’ replied Gladwin, wide-eyed.
Kate had heard her. ‘Rather public, certainly,’ she said. ‘No chance of closing the door, but they’ve got it to a fine art. Luc had a colostomy bag at first, but insisted on trying to get back to something like normal. It can get very messy, either way.’ She was leading the threesome further away, towards the lines of graves. ‘He’s trained himself to a schedule, amazingly. But you’ve interrupted it.’
Gladwin said nothing, but Caz made a sympathetic sound, then said, ‘I’ve got a cousin with the same sort of problem. He says it’s the worst part of the whole business. He was in Afghanistan,’ she elaborated. ‘Got on the wrong side of a roadside bomb.’
Thea felt as if she was the only one actually concerned with the investigation into Juliet’s murder. Gladwin had finally taken proper interest in the Paxford Centre, but seemed slow to draw any deductions about it. ‘Well …’ she began. ‘I should go and see how Drew’s doing. It looks as if Linda Biddulph was serious about cancelling the funeral. How silly of her.’
‘Can you really cancel a funeral?’ Gladwin asked. ‘What happens to the body?’
‘Good question. And there’s an open grave over there, waiting for him.’
‘That sounds like a safety hazard,’ said Barkley. The other two threw her identical glances of exasperation. ‘And won’t it be full of water after all that rain?’ the new detective went on, undaunted.
‘Oh, stop,’ said Thea. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, is there?’
‘I think I should arrange a formal interview with that Luc man,’ worried Gladwin. ‘He knew Juliet. He’s here where she died. He knows other people that she knew. I can’t let all that go unexamined, can I?’
‘You should talk to him,’ Thea agreed. ‘I think he’d be really pleased to be helpful. And there’s no risk that you’ll suspect him of being the killer.’
‘Not so sure about his brother,’ observed Barkley. ‘Too good-looking to be real, if you ask me.’
‘With no reason in the world to want Juliet dead,’ snapped Thea. ‘And he can’t help his looks.’
‘Oh no? That tan, for a start, can only have come from a lamp. Expensive haircut. Fancy shoes. And did you smell him? Who takes Tom Ford cologne on a camping trip? Have you any idea what it costs?’
Thea and Gladwin looked blank. ‘Never heard of it,’ said Thea.
‘Nor me,’ said Gladwin.
‘Well it’s about two hundred quid for a fifty mil bottle. What does that bloke do for a living?’
‘No idea,’ said Thea. ‘And how come you know so much about male perfumes?’
‘One of my foster dads was a buyer for Harrods, believe it or not. He used to bring the stuff home.’
‘Unlikely job for a foster parent,’ commented Thea.
‘Don’t see why. They get all sorts, you know. He had a very sensitive sense of smell, even when he was little. The story was, he applied for the job as a joke and was gobsmacked when they offered it him. Not as well paid as you might think, and he never got on too well with the rest of the staff, but now I can name about a hundred different scents. Tom Ford’s one of the easy ones.’
‘How long do you think they’ll be?’ Gladwin wondered, nodding towards the van.
‘Ages, probably,’ said Caz.
‘Well, I ought to go,’ said Thea. ‘You don’t need me any more.’ She paused. ‘Except …’
‘What?’ Gladwin seemed only marginally interested in further discussions.
‘I had a wild idea, early this morning. It seems a bit daft now, and I’m not sure how it even arose, after everything else that’s happened. But when I realised that there was a connection between the Biddulphs and Juliet, I started to wonder a bit about Lawrence and his mother. The way Lawrence looks so much like Luc, and lives quite near here, and has been kept so completely in the dark about his father. I mean – he’s going to be really angry when he finds out the truth.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t know – but maybe you ought to have a talk with his mother, at least.’
‘I can’t see the slightest grounds for doing that. I’ve been having much more focused thoughts about the Spiller man and his wife. He’s altogether too present, if you know what I mean. He keeps showing up. And he wasn’t honest with us, from the start.’
‘You sound like me,’ said Thea. ‘Shouldn’t you be searching for hard evidence, rather than speculating?’
‘Watch it. The evidence is thin on the ground – literally. We’ve gathered everything we can think of, and it still doesn’t point anywhere. Flash of temper seems the most likely scenario. No real motive, probably – just a moment of madness. Those are the hardest to catch, of course.’
‘Go and talk to Lawrence Biddulph,’ Thea advised. ‘Tell him you’re speaking to everybody who has recently had one of our funerals, or something.’
‘Except he hasn’t,’ Gladwin pointed out.
‘You could pretend you didn’t know that.’
‘Oh, Lord, Thea. I can never decide whether you’re an awful impediment to due police procedure, or an inspired maverick that we’d never manage without. It usually feels as if you’re somehow both those things at the same time.’
‘Sorry,’ said Thea insincerely.
‘There’s a car coming,’ said Caz.
Initially Thea thought this an unnecessary warning, since they were well clear of the road and cars passed all the time. Then she realised it was slowing down. When it stopped in the entrance to the field, Thea gave the young detective another glance of admiration. This girl was really something, she was beginning to suspect. Acute senses, confident approach, interesting background. ‘How did you know?’ she asked. Caz merely shrugged.
‘Bloody hell, it’s Linda and Lawrence. And his missus, by the look of it.’ Thea was peering unashamedly through the side windows of the car. ‘Surely they can’t think the funeral’s still happening. No, that’s impossible – she’s the one who’s giving the instructions.’
First out of the car was the younger Mrs Biddulph. Thea had only seen her once, and would have had difficulty in recognising her again, even if she hadn’t been transformed into a screaming harridan. ‘Come on,’ she shouted. ‘No more of this nonsense. Just come here with me and tell me what’s been going on.’
At first it seemed that she was addressing her husband, but then it became clear that it was her mother-in-law she was yelling at. She pulled open the door behind the driver’s seat and grabbed an arm. She seemed altogether oblivious of her audience of four women, twenty-five yards away.
Thea watched in horrified curiosity. The spectacle of the two Biddulph families coalescing for the first time was going to be highly dramatic. But Gladwin and Barkley had not yet grasped any of the implications, other than the expectation of a disturbance, during which their duties as police officers might well be required. Ka
te Dalrymple was staring at the car in silent fascination.
‘Excuse me? Madam?’ said Gladwin to the irate woman. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
Thea snorted with suppressed laughter at this stereotypical remark. And yet, what else could she say?
Lawrence now emerged from the car, standing tall and oddly defiant. The grooves on his face that Thea had noted on her first encounter with him were, if anything, deeper than ever. ‘Is that them, then?’ he asked his mother, who was vigorously trying to shake off her daughter-in-law’s hold. ‘Izzy – let her go, will you?’ he added. ‘Stop being so rough.’
At last, the occupants of the camper van became aware of something going on. Clovis came to the door and stepped down the ramp. The distance was, again, too great for conversation, but nobody moved to get closer. Thea felt herself to be the hub of a swirling wheel – the only person present who knew who everybody was. And even she had not known that Mrs Lawrence was called Izzy until that moment.
‘Yes, that’s them,’ said Linda tightly. ‘But there’s one missing.’
‘I didn’t believe it,’ Lawrence said. ‘How could I believe such a thing of my father? How could anybody bear such a betrayal? My father. Only mine.’ He was half-crying, his voice low.
‘I was going to tell you after the funeral,’ said Linda. ‘I knew this would be your reaction. I knew you’d be shattered by it. I tried to tell them, make them understand.’ She said this looking at Thea, not the people by the camper van. Izzy was hovering in front of her, more like a police officer than either of the actual ones.
‘So many lies,’ bleated Lawrence. ‘Barefaced wicked lies, fed to me from a baby. My whole life has been a lie. I wasn’t who I thought I was. You weren’t, either. What did you do – steal him away from that woman over there? And her sons? You robbed them all. And you were so ashamed you kept it a secret all this time.’
Linda and Izzy both made soothing noises, while maintaining the hostility between the two of them. ‘Izzy was very wrong to tell you,’ said Linda. ‘I don’t know what she was thinking.’
