(2011) What Lies Beneath

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘You didn’t phone ahead?’

  ‘No. We hardly ever did. We both knew it was all right to just turn up. Her home was mine, just as mine was hers.’

  Amy looked up, startled, because Gran never wanted people to call on her out of the blue and she never called on people without arranging it beforehand. She always said it was the height of bad manners. Perhaps she was trying to protect Gramps, though.

  ‘What time would it be when you went to Mrs Campion’s?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Eight o’clock, or thereabouts. I can’t be any more precise. Amy, what time did you go out?’

  ‘Straight after supper,’ said Amy. She had been hoping to see Jan in the Red Lion. He had not been around, but she had stayed for an hour or so, talking to one or two people she’d met at the quiz nights. ‘It was probably around quarter past seven,’ she said.

  ‘That sounds about right,’ said Gran. ‘And Derek went out about the same time. He said he had a rehearsal,’ she said. ‘He’s in the Bramley Operatic Society, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, we know about that. We’ve been checking up there, Mrs Haywood. I’m afraid it seems Mr Haywood hasn’t attended many of those rehearsals for about a month.’

  ‘He was seeing Veronica on those nights,’ said Gran, half to herself.

  ‘It’s almost certain he was. We’ve questioned a couple of her neighbours and they saw Mr Haywood’s car parked on the drive on three or four occasions.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Gran. She frowned, then appeared to make another effort. ‘I should think I got to Veronica’s house around twenty to eight. I parked a little way down the street because I saw there was a car already on the drive.’

  ‘You recognized it as your husband’s car, though?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I’m sorry if that sounds odd, but I just registered that Veronica had a visitor. I probably noticed it was the same make and colour as my husband’s, but I’m not even sure about that. I certainly didn’t look at the numberplate or anything like that. There was no reason to.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be anything to identify it?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Anything on the back seat or in the windscreen? A sticker for the AA or National Trust or something?’

  ‘Neither my husband nor I stick things on car windscreens,’ said Gran, a trifle sharply. ‘I like a car to be clean and uncluttered.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I did hesitate about ringing the bell,’ she said.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was social embarrassment,’ said Gran. ‘Veronica had been hinting at a new man in her life.’ She gave a small laugh and Amy wished she had not because it sounded false and forced. Gran seemed to realize it and said, ‘So I didn’t want to intrude on anything.’

  ‘Very understandable.’

  ‘I was trying to make up my mind whether to simply come home, when I heard her scream.’

  ‘You heard that from outside?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Her bedroom is at the front. When I looked up the little top window was open. I heard her quite clearly.’

  ‘Was it just a scream or did she actually call something out? A name, for instance?’

  Gran hesitated and her eyes slid away from the inspector’s sharp regard. Amy had the unwelcome thought that Gran had heard Veronica shout a name and the name had been Derek, but she saw Gran was going to be loyal. Even though Gramps had been shagging Veronica, Gran would still be loyal to him.

  ‘It was just a cry,’ said Gran, determinedly.

  Amy found it so upsetting to see Gran so obviously trying to shield Gramps she thought she might start crying again, so she pretended to go out to the kitchen to reheat the coffee.

  When she got back they were still talking about the scream.

  ‘None of the neighbours heard it,’ the inspector was saying and Amy thought there was a slightly sharper note in his voice. It was ridiculous to think he was trying to catch Gran out, but for a moment she did think it.

  ‘I don’t suppose they would,’ Gran said. ‘It’s a detached house with a fair bit of garden on each side. And at that time of the evening people would have televisions on.’

  ‘Possibly so. What did you do when you heard the scream?’

  ‘There were two screams at least,’ said Gran. ‘Then a sort of crash, as if something might have been knocked over in a struggle.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  For a moment Amy thought Gran was going to say, in her most acidic voice, ‘What would you have done in that situation?’ but she said she had run back to her car.

  ‘You didn’t think of trying to get into the house?’

  ‘I did not. For all I knew it might simply have been a . . . a lovers’ quarrel.’ The expression came out with distaste. ‘And if it was a house-breaker, I certainly wasn’t going to face him. I did what I should think most people would have done. I went back to my car and used my mobile to call the police.’

  ‘We’ve got a record of the call,’ said the sergeant, who had been making notes at a furious rate. ‘It was logged at eight ten.’

  ‘I think I said something about hearing screams from the house and being afraid someone might be in trouble,’ said Gran. ‘Whoever I spoke to told me to wait in my car with the doors locked, and they would send someone straightaway.’ She leaned back in her chair as if saying all this had exhausted her, which made Amy feel anxious for her. But Gran took a deep breath, and went on, ‘After about ten minutes a policeman and policewoman arrived. They saw me, and again told me to stay put. They said it was most likely what they called “a domestic”, but they would check. And then, after about a quarter of an hour . . .’ Her voice wobbled much more now and, to Amy’s horror, she began to cry. ‘After about a quarter of an hour,’ said Gran, weeping in earnest now, ‘they came out with my husband and put him into a patrol car. They wouldn’t let me speak to him. I don’t even think he knew I was there . . .’

  Amy said, ‘Inspector, is there anything else, because I think . . .’

  ‘Not for the moment.’ The two men stood up. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Haywood,’ the inspector said. ‘I’m sorry to have caused you this distress, but you’ll understand we have to ask these questions. Your husband hasn’t been charged with anything so far, but I’m bound to say things aren’t looking good. The knife was in his car, you know. He’d tried to wipe it clean on some driving gloves.’

  ‘But you said you found him actually in the bedroom,’ said Amy. ‘He wouldn’t have done all that – um – stuff with gloves and things, then gone back into the house, would he?’

  ‘We did find him in the bedroom and that’s one of the details we’ve still got to iron out,’ said the inspector. ‘But there could be any number of reasons for him to go back in. He might have realized he’d forgotten something – left a coat behind or a scarf.’

  ‘Or,’ said the sergeant, ‘simply gone back to check he hadn’t left any clues.’

  ‘But,’ said Amy, ‘why would he kill Veronica at all?’

  ‘The likeliest explanation is that she was exerting some pressure on him over their affair,’ said the inspector. ‘Perhaps threatening to make it public – to tell Mr Haywood’s wife about it. He could have lost his temper and tried to silence her.’

  Amy said incredulously, ‘But he wouldn’t. He’s the gentlest, most unviolent man you’d ever meet,’ and caught a quick movement from Gran.

  ‘Yes, madam?’ The inspector had seen the movement as well, even though Gran had tried to suppress it. ‘Were you going to say something?’

  ‘No, except – no, nothing at all.’

  ‘Mrs Haywood, we will get at the truth of this in the end,’ said the inspector. ‘So please say whatever you were going to.’

  ‘It’s only that Amy isn’t right,’ said Gran, sounding very reluctant. ‘My husband does have a bit of a temper. Quite a hot temper, actually. I don’t suppose many people have ever seen it because he keeps it well reined in. But it’s there, all right.�
� She gave a small shudder and hunched her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her body as if for warmth. Amy stared at her in horrified disbelief, but then Gran put up a hand to shade her eyes, and said, in a thready voice, ‘And now, if you really have finished your questions, I should like to take one of my pills and go to bed.’

  Ella was not going to be complacent about what she had done tonight, but she thought she could feel cautiously pleased with herself.

  She felt very strange, slightly dizzy and unconnected, as if she had taken some strong drug that was creating a thick glass screen between her and the rest of the world. That would be the shock of seeing Derek go into that slut Veronica’s house. When Ella thought about that – when she thought how they had cheated and lied and made a fool of her, probably laughing at her behind her back – a wave of such intense anger swept over her she wanted to scream.

  But if they had laughed at her Ella was having the laugh on them now. Veronica was on a mortuary slab and Derek was in a cell at the local police station, waiting to be charged with murder. Ella would make very sure he was charged; she had made a start on that by telling the CID inspector that Derek had a temper. In the days ahead there would be other things she could do – small but telling things – that would add to the impression of his guilt. She supposed she ought to feel sick and horrified at finding Derek and Veronica were having an affair, but she did not, although she had given a good performance of it. It had fooled Amy and the CID men, that was for sure.

  For the next few days she would continue to appear as a wife devastated but loyal and prepared to forgive. She would visit Derek at the police station – she did not want to, but people would find that admirable. So brave, they would say. My goodness, Ella stood by that rat Derek Haywood when most other women would have turned their backs.

  Ella would turn her back in the end, of course. Whether he was found guilty or innocent, quietly and discreetly she would file for divorce as soon as possible. Then she would sell this house and buy a smaller one, a bungalow perhaps. She did not think she would move away from the area. She was liked and admired, and people would be sympathetic and supportive.

  She thought back over the last few hours, examining all the details, making sure she had covered all her tracks. There were no flaws, no weaknesses anywhere. But just as she was finally starting to slide into sleep she was horrified to realize she had missed something potentially damning.

  The policewoman had insisted on driving her home from Veronica’s house, using Ella’s own car, saying she was not fit to drive herself after such a shocking experience. Ella had agreed and, once in the house, had come upstairs, leaving the policewoman to make a cup of tea. She had the handbag containing her bloodstained sweater with her, and automatically put it at the side of the dressing table where she always kept the bag currently in use. There had been plenty of time to discard the jacket and pull on a sweater before going back downstairs, and also time to check her appearance in the bathroom mirror. But the bag, with its damning evidence, was where she had left it. How could she have forgotten it?

  She got out of bed and opened it. The sweater was crumpled up, the bloodstains dried to a horrid dark brown, and the blood had marked the bag’s lining, which meant the bag would also have to be destroyed. Moving quietly so as not to disturb Amy, she transferred most of the contents to another bag of similar size. The little make-up purse, her address book, her wallet and the mobile phone all went into the other bag.

  She would not feel safe until she had got rid of the stained bag and the sweater. Derek said you should always do a thing right away. Seize the day, he said. Carpe diem. That had been Derek pretending to be learned. Veronica had probably been impressed by it, although she would not have been impressed if she had had forty years of it, as Ella had.

  But she would seize the day now, or rather the night. She pulled on trousers and a sweater, and slipped her feet into flat shoes. Carrying the bag with its damning contents, and without switching on any lights, she went down the stairs and out through the kitchen door. She would bury these things where she had buried Clem’s diaries. Later, perhaps at the weekend, as originally planned, she would pretend the hedge clippings over them needed burning. Amy would think she was being absurd, bothering about garden rubbish when Derek was in a police cell, but Ella would be querulous and insistent. It would give her something to do, she would say. Something ordinary to occupy her mind.

  She fetched a trowel from the potting shed and went down the path to the end of the garden around the side of the conservatory. As she glanced through the glass sides, she saw the oleander bush, and smiled slightly, remembering Clem.

  The end of the garden was where they generally got rid of garden rubbish, and where they occasionally had barbecues. Derek liked barbecues; he usually donned a silly chef’s hat to grill sausages and spare ribs. He would not be doing that in the future, and Ella would not have to buy the ingredients for the complicated marinade he insisted on making, messing up the kitchen and splashing soy sauce everywhere.

  But it was a part of the garden that was not overlooked, and in any case it was two o’clock in the morning. Amy’s bedroom was at the front of the house; she would neither see nor hear anything. Ella bent down, brushing away the few hedge clippings and scooping out a good deep hole for the bag and the sweater, which she put on top of Clem’s diaries. She patted the earth back in place, replaced the hedge clippings and, satisfied with what she had done, returned the trowel to the shed. Back in her bedroom, she got into bed again and this time fell asleep almost at once.

  Amy could not sleep. She supposed nobody would sleep after such extraordinary events. She went over and over it all in her mind, while the bedside clock ticked its way round to half past one, and then two. This was infuriating. If she did not get some sleep she would be like a piece of chewed string in the morning, and she had to be strong and resourceful for Gran. But the more she tried to sleep, the wider awake she became.

  She got up to take a paracetamol, then went quietly downstairs, not wanting to wake Gran if she had managed to get to sleep, but thinking she would find something light to read. Gran’s taste ran to the milder kind of chick-lit and historical romances – there was a whole shelf of Georgette Heyer in the sitting room – and Gramps liked nineteenth-century sea battles: Alexander Kent and Patrick O’Brian. Amy could not decide between Regency ballrooms and Regency sailors so she took one of each. She was about to go back upstairs when she heard footsteps outside the house. Her heart skipped a beat: surely they were not about to have a break-in on top of everything else? Perhaps it was the police returning with some news. But the police would not creep furtively round the house like that. Amy switched off the table lamp and went cautiously to the window, drawing back the curtains slightly.

  A figure was half-kneeling, half-crouching over a patch of ground at the very far end of the garden and after a moment Amy saw with astonishment that it was Gran. She watched, trying to see what on earth Gran was doing. It looked so furtive Amy did not want to call out, and when Gran stood up and turned back to the house Amy scooted back to her bedroom. She heard Gran come in and go quietly into her room, then the house fell into silence. Amy, her mind tumbling with bewildering images and theories, finally drifted into an uneasy half-sleep towards dawn.

  She woke at seven thirty feeling exhausted and almost as if she might be about to have flu. The day was leaden, rainclouds gathering overhead. It was unthinkable to ask Gran what she had been doing in the garden last night; Amy could not stop thinking it was something that would incriminate Gramps and had to be got rid of. But then she remembered Gran telling the inspector about Gramps’ temper, and the more she thought about that, the more she thought Gran had deliberately tried to plant the idea that Gramps had a violent side.

  Trying to appear normal, she made toast and scrambled eggs and persuaded Gran to eat some to keep up her strength. She could not help Gramps unless she stayed strong, said Amy firmly.

  The CID sergeant a
nd a policewoman arrived shortly after nine with Gramps’s car.

  ‘It’s not really material to the case,’ said the DS, ‘but we had to get forensics to give it the once-over anyway. It’s as clean as a whistle. I’ll leave it in the drive, shall I?’

  The policewoman, who was the one who had brought Ella home last night, asked if a few overnight things could be put together for Mr Haywood.

  ‘You’re still keeping him at the station then?’ said Gran.

  ‘Well, yes, for the moment.’

  ‘I can see him, can I?’ said Gran, surprising Amy.

  ‘Yes, certainly. The inspector wants to see you anyway.’

  ‘Why?’ said Gran very sharply.

  ‘Oh, only to check your statement before it’s printed for you to sign. Standard procedure. We’ll give you a lift if you prefer. I don’t expect you feel like driving.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ asked Amy. ‘I could drive.’

  But Gran seemed to want to do this on her own, which Amy understood.

  ‘In any case I’ll probably be there ages, what with going through the statement and so on. You’d be hanging around for hours.’

  So instead Amy hunted out a small overnight bag and helped Gran pack it. She waited until the police car had driven Gran away, then fetched a small spade from the garden shed.

  It was easy to see where Gran had been. There was a little heap of twigs and bits of hedge at the very end of the garden and it was obvious that the ground had been turned over. The threatened rain had started, huge drops that spattered down on the ground and soaked the thin shirt Amy had on. She shook her hair angrily out of her eyes and tried to persuade herself there whatever Gran had been doing last night was entirely innocent.

  But she had only dug out a few spadefuls when she knew it was not innocent at all. The things Gran had buried were quite near the surface. Amy dropped the spade and kneeled down. A bloodstained sweater – Gran’s oatmeal cashmere sweater she had been wearing yesterday. The leather handbag she often used, the lining visible, also bloodstained. And beneath it was what looked like a stack of leather-covered books. Amy prodded them. They were damp and the pages were already shredding so it was impossible to know what they were, but she could see they were handwritten.