by Wonny Lea
Catherine hated what the baby was doing to her and heaped some of her anger onto Manuel. It seemed that instead of bringing them closer together the boy that they had seen on the scan was driving a wedge between them. At about twenty-four weeks gestation the sickness disappeared and as if attempting to make up for months of not enjoying food Catherine ate her way through mountains of cakes and chocolate.
She piled on the pounds and gave herself a new reason to be angry with her unborn son. It could have been on the cards anyway but excessive weight gain and minimal movement didn’t help with her blood-pressure levels, and she screamed abuse at her baby when her ankles disappeared and in their place formed a mound of pitting oedema.
With all the signs of pre-eclampsia escalating a decision was reached to perform a caesarean section at thirty-six weeks and Anton weighed in at just under six pounds.
Manuel had assumed that his wife would breast-feed their baby but Catherine had other ideas and she was more than happy to let anyone who wanted to bottle-feed her son and change his nappies.
All she wanted was a return of the figure she had once had and for her, not some scrawny newcomer, to be once again the centre of attention.
Because the pregnancy had been difficult and Catherine was showing no signs of bonding with her child the family were advised to be on the lookout for signs of postnatal depression. Manuel did everything he could to raise his wife’s spirits and chased the architects, planners, and builders for progress on the building of their new home.
He had come to realise that Catherine was very much a material girl and buying things to turn the house into her dream home would surely lift her spirits. When Anton was just six weeks old he brought her the news that all the legal stuff had been sorted and that the builders had actually moved a caravan onto the site and were prepared to crack on with the development.
Like the majority of the population neither Manuel nor Catherine’s parents properly understood the complexity of postnatal depression and they just went along with Catherine’s mood swings.
There were sunshine days when she was up before the birds and by lunch had purchased various items for their new home, and there were black days when she stayed in bed and cried. There was only one constant common denominator and that was Anton, but whether it was a good or a bad day for Catherine there was no place in it for the child.
It seemed that progress with the house was doomed, as one set of builders went into liquidation and a new company had to be engaged. This stop-start uncertainty was not helping and Manuel struggled to find anything to keep his wife sane. He stayed in the UK as much as he possibly could and was both mother and father to his son whilst he was there and in his absence Catherine’s parents took on that responsibility.
Suddenly, when Anton was six months old, Catherine returned to horse riding and to the party-loving set she had once been part of. Her parents, whilst not approving of her staying out late and sometimes not coming home at all, were so pleased to have their daughter back that they kept quiet about her activities. However, as her behaviour got more outrageous, they felt compelled to challenge her.
She had told them that she was not prepared to hang around and look after ‘Manuel’s Spanish brat’ whilst he swanned around Andalucía with some of his old conquests, and that she was thinking of leaving her husband for someone who appreciated her. That night Manuel had telephoned and asked to speak to his wife but her mother, who had answered the phone, had no idea where her daughter was and suggested there were things they needed to talk about. In return Manuel told her that his family were concerned about Catherine’s lack of love and concern towards their grandson and had some suggestions of their own to make.
It was agreed that Manuel and his parents would fly over the next day. Margaret Washington tried ringing her daughter’s mobile to tell her about the arrangements. The phone kept diverting to voicemail and Margaret didn’t feel happy about just leaving a message. She wrote a note and walked to her daughter’s room with the intention of leaving it on the bedside table. When she entered the room she got the strangest feeling that something was wrong, but superficially everything looked to be in order.
Maybe it was the order that was causing her concern! Catherine wasn’t the tidiest of women, but today everything looked neat: only one drawer was partially open, and that was because the buckle of one of Catherine’s belts was preventing it from closing. Margaret left the note and wondered where her daughter had gone this time and when she would be back.
She had never been an easy child but she was still Margaret’s baby, and it was obvious to her that her daughter’s mind was in turmoil. It would have been easy to blame postnatal depression or the absence of her husband but Margaret knew that it was more fundamental than that. When Catherine was just twelve years old she had deliberately thrown herself off her horse because she had come second in a local gymkhana. She reflected that she and her husband should have sought professional help for her daughter then, but instead they had thrown money at the problem and simply gave Catherine everything she wanted.
It was her pregnancy that had exposed the extent of her unstable mind and as Margaret closed the door of her daughter’s room, she wondered where it would all end.
Chapter Eighteen
Memories
Martin cleaned off the previous notes on the whiteboard and drew three new columns before putting a bold heading, ‘VERA’.
‘Apart from the paperwork and the judicial process we have concluded the investigation of the kidnapping of Jason Barnes and the killing of Susan Evans. We have a signed confession and more than enough forensic evidence to prove that almost everything happened in line with what Dan Painter has told us.
‘The only thing that is open for discussion is the lead-up to her death, as according to Painter it was she who started the physical fight between them and he hadn’t realised his own strength when he tried to shut her up. At some point Jason may be able to tell us what he saw, but the boy has been through a lot and we can wait until he is fully recovered before attempting to question him.
‘I had expected to be here this morning just winding up and confirming the results of the post-mortem on Susan Evans, but instead we have opened a new investigation and I’m going to ask Alex to give us a pictorial account of the new case.’
Alex sat at his laptop and with an air of theatrical intrigue controlled the images that emerged on the largest whiteboard in the room. He explained that the beautiful location was to have been the setting for a luxurious home, but work hadn’t got much further than the digging of the foundations, with the positioning of a caravan for the use of the builders.
Martin interrupted. ‘As most of you will know, this caravan is where Jason Barnes was taken and where Susan Evans was killed.
‘We know from the confession that the woman was killed in the caravan and there is evidence of Dan Painter’s vomit – just as he described.
‘In the next ten minutes you will see a video of how the body was found and carefully removed from beneath all the bricks and debris that you can see. Given the remoteness of the place and the fact that the site had been abandoned, Susan Evans’ body would probably have stayed there indefinitely if we hadn’t been told where to find it.’
Martin nodded. ‘Yes, thank God Painter couldn’t live with his nightmares.’
‘I didn’t record DS Pryor’s sudden and spectacular disappearance, but he must have trodden on some rotten wood and loose stones because part of the ground gave way beneath him.’ Alex waited and was not disappointed to hear comments about Matt’s weight and the size of a hole needed to swallow him up.
Matt retaliated. ‘Not funny, guys, I could have broken my neck!’
Because everyone knew no serious damage had been done they felt able to continue with a bit of banter, but then it was back to business as Alex flashed up an image that looked directly into the hole that Matt had vacated.
Now it was Matt’s turn to comment. ‘How come we didn’t
see that when I was pulled out?’
Martin replied. ‘We were all concentrating on getting you out safely and didn’t really want to disturb the area again.’
‘Apart from that, the skeleton that we can all see clearly now was not as visible at the time. It was only when Ken was making some final checks that he removed some pieces of wood and could see this exact image.’ Alex continued. ‘This is proof of what we were saying a few minutes ago, about the feasibility of Susan Evans’ body not being easily found. We can see that this second body had been in that hole for some years – hopefully DCI Phelps will be able to tell us more about that.’
Martin, with some input from Matt, spent the next fifteen minutes relating the fascinating time they had spent with Prof. Moore’s colleagues. When they had finished Martin’s first column, ‘Actual Facts’, was surprisingly full considering all they had to base the facts on was a skeleton.
‘The professors are keen to remind us that some of the facts are still not fully substantiated, but in any event they give us quite a lot to work on.’ He moved to the second column and began scribbling the facts that needed to be considered and handing out chunks of work.
‘I agree with Prof. Moore’s suggestion that the dumping of what would have then been a complete body is likely to have coincided with the cessation of building on the site. We urgently need to speak to Manuel Romanes about why the work was stopped. The planning department seem to think it was a mixture of frustration due to non-compliance with planning regulations and possibly some sort of family dispute, but they aren’t really sure.
‘The address that the council planners gave Matt for Mr Romanes is a farmhouse, but we’ve checked the electoral register and according to that there has never been anyone with the surname Romanes living there – but nevertheless it is the address to which the council sent his letters. Helen, you, and I will take a trip there after this session.
‘Matt, you can get some of the team working on the missing persons files. You know what you’re looking for?’
Matt nodded. ‘A woman approximately thirty years of age who may have been reported missing about five years ago. Of course we have no idea if she was from this area and so we may have to look into UK-wide records. She would have been around five feet eight inches tall, with a perfect smile, and could have been into sport as she had during her lifetime suffered a number of broken bones.
‘Our visiting professors particularly noticed that her collar bone had been broken a few times, and isn’t that something that happens quite a lot to people who ride horses?’
‘Yes,’ responded Helen. ‘It happens in contact sports as well, and according to the facts on the board she also broke her leg and her arm at some time so it could have been skiing or even a traffic accident.’
‘It could have been one of a million things, but just knowing about these details will help with the identification.’ Martin rubbed the side of his face and called the meeting to a close. ‘One other thing you need to do, Matt, and that is talk to the people upstairs and put out a press release regarding the discovery of this second woman. Some of the reporters go back a long time and they may even be of some help on the missing persons front.’
Martin walked out and Helen joined him and asked if he needed directions to the farmhouse, but he shook his head. ‘I recognised the address as soon as Matt said it, and if I’m not very much mistaken a couple called Elsie and James Hopkins live there – or at least they did.’
During the journey to the farm Martin told Helen how his aunt had taken him to the farm a few times when he was in school. ‘Elsie Hopkins used to sell farm produce at the open-air market in Cowbridge, and my aunt loved her yoghurt and goat’s cheese. I remember kicking my heels for what seemed like hours whilst they chatted on a Saturday morning, but my patience was rewarded when we were invited to the farm.
‘I remember it being a great place and Mr Hopkins being exactly what I expected a farmer to look like.’ Martin laughed. ‘I’ve learned since that there is no such thing as a typical farmer, or a typical anything else if it comes to that, but I really enjoyed our visits there.’
‘Why did they stop?’ enquired Helen.
‘I don’t think there was actually any reason other than my aunt probably got work and that often meant spending all my free time on film sets or such like.’
‘Sounds more exciting than visiting a farm. I’m surprised you still remember where it is as it must be years since you were last there.’
‘Oh, at least a hundred years!’ mocked Martin as he turned the car into a narrow country road and followed the sign that told them they were heading for Celtic Valley Farm. A few minutes of bumping over some rough ground and he brought the car to a stop and got out to open a wide metal gate.
‘Exactly as I remember it,’ said Martin as he got back in and drove the car to a hard-standing near the farmhouse and parked it next to two other cars and a small van.
Their arrival had set the dogs barking, but there were no dogs to be seen and so cautiously they made their way to the front door. Before Helen had the chance to knock the door was opened, and although it was something like twenty years since Martin had last seen her he was practically certain that he was looking at Elsie Hopkins.
She was thinner than he recalled, but the years had treated her face well and even two complete strangers at her door received the cheery ‘hello’ he remembered from the past.
He had been a boy of around ten years of age when they had last met and he would not have expected her to recognise him and in any event he was obliged to make the formal introductions and show her proof of identity. That was when she surprised him.
‘DCI Martin Phelps?’ she asked. ‘Oh, sorry, it’s not that I’m suggesting anything different, it’s just that many years ago I was friendly with a woman whose nephew was called Martin Phelps and she brought him here a few of times – what a coincidence.’
Martin smiled warmly at the woman and shook her hand. ‘No coincidence. I did come here as a child with my Auntie Pat, and I was telling my colleague on the way here what fond memories I have of those visits and how kind you and your husband were to me.’
Elsie smiled back, though a little sadly. ‘My husband died of testicular cancer ten years ago just last Friday, and as you will see the farm is not what it used to be. Come on in, heaven knows why we’re standing on the doorstep. It’s a real pleasure to see you again, but what about Pat – what’s she up to these days?’
Helen felt like a gooseberry, as for the next ten minutes her boss and Mrs Hopkins caught up on the last twenty years or so. It wasn’t often that Martin had the chance to talk to someone, other than his next-door neighbour, who had known his aunt. Somehow between the words a pot of tea was made and some home-made scones were produced.
‘Matt will be cursing me for getting this visit,’ said Helen as she bit into the most delicious scone she had ever tasted.
Before he tasted anything Martin felt compelled to explain their visit to Elsie. Initially he just said that they were hoping to speak to a Mr Manuel Romanes, who had at one time given the farm as his address.
‘Has this got anything to do with Catherine?’ asked Elsie.
‘Who is Catherine?’
‘Manuel’s wife,’ responded Elsie.
‘So you do know Mr Romanes? Is he here?’ Martin could see that their host was getting anxious and slowed down on the questions. ‘Look, Mrs Hopkins, perhaps you could just put us in the picture, there is nothing for you to worry about but we really do need to speak to Manuel Romanes.’
‘Please call me Elsie,’ was the reply. ‘It’s a long story, and with your permission I’ll get my sister Margaret to join us, as Catherine is her daughter and as far as I know Catherine is still legally married to Manuel.’
Elsie got up and crossed the kitchen, opening a thick wooden door at the back.
‘Margaret, will you come here? There are some police officers who want to talk to us about Manuel.’ There was no
response from the other side of the door and Elsie continued walking away and calling out.
‘What do you make of that?’ Helen asked Martin.
Martin shrugged. ‘Let’s just wait and see what they have to say. At the moment I can’t make anything of it, but one thing I do know is that these scones are even better than the ones I remember as a kid.’
Elsie returned with her sister, whom she introduced as Mrs Margaret Washington, and Martin immediately decided that unlike her sister she would be expecting the use of her full title. ‘Mrs Washington, it’s good of you to see us, and as I understand it the man we want to speak to is your son-in-law.’
‘Yes, Manuel is our son-in-law but he doesn’t live here, he lives in Spain.’
‘And you daughter Catherine, does she live in Spain too?’
Mrs Washington had sat on one of the wooden chairs opposite Martin and he watched as her lips tightened and he wondered if there had been some kind of family dispute.
‘It’s possible that my daughter lives in Spain, Chief Inspector, but if she does it isn’t with Manuel – he has got custody of our grandson and is currently shacked up with someone who is about to produce another offspring for him. He has obviously forgotten my Catherine ever existed.’
Suddenly and violently Elsie banged her fists on the table, causing everyone to jump. ‘That’s enough, Margaret. I mean it – that’s enough. I am sick of you bad-mouthing Manuel when in reality the man couldn’t have done any more to support you and your ungrateful family.
‘When Peter was in danger of being declared bankrupt it was Manuel’s father who put up the funds to stop that happening.
‘Catherine was never faithful to her husband and everyone in the farming community knew what she was up to with that crowd from the stables. He trusted her and she made a fool of him, and don’t pretend you didn’t know any of this.’
It was as if Elsie had been bottling up her disgust for years, and now that the cork had popped there was no stopping her outpouring of feelings.
