by Joyce Cato
Max nodded, then trotted over towards the pavilion as the match got underway again.
‘Has anyone seen where Tris went?’ the cricket captain asked the first of the women in the line of deck chairs, and the Chinese whisper quickly ran up and down the field.
But nobody, it seemed, had seen Tris within the last ten minutes or so.
‘Well, he can’t have left,’ Max said irritably. ‘We’d have seen him if he’d walked off the pitch.’
‘Then where is he?’ his father demanded, his face beginning to suffuse with colour.
If there was one thing he hated, it was being made to look like a fool in public. And with everyone depending on Tris to catch up and then overtake Steeple Clinton’s pitiful tally, the boy had certainly better have a damned good reason, other than impatience, for cutting out on them.
‘I’ll see if he’s gone around the back, shall I?’ James Cluley finally offered, nodding towards the pavilion. ‘It’s shady and cooler back there. If he ate too much at tea, he might have gone around to sleep it off before he was needed to bat.’
Max snorted at this – Tris was, after all, a fit young man, and was hardly likely to feel the heat, let alone the need to sleep off the odd cucumber sandwich or two. But it was the only place that they hadn’t looked yet, so Max shrugged, and the boy’s father sighed with impatience.
‘Might as well,’ Robert Jones agreed. And whilst he too doubted that his son would be found ‘resting’ back there, he did have to concede that Tris might very well be caught out entertaining a woman. That seemed to be about the boy’s forte. He had no damned sense of discretion or discernment.
James Cluley dutifully slipped between the back of the pavilion and the hawthorn-lined chain-link fence, and did indeed, promptly discover Tristan Jones lying down in the shade, about halfway along.
Except that he was lying very still indeed.
Beside him was an old, discarded cricket bat, lightly stained on one side with something red and slightly sticky-looking.
As James stood over him, looking down at the young man’s body, the old groundsman could clearly see that the back of his head had been dealt a heavy blow with something very hard and very unforgiving indeed.
And the old man could quite clearly see that Tristan Jones was not breathing. Tristan Jones, it was quite clear, was as dead as you could get.
James Cluley, after one long last look, turned and walked very carefully away on legs that felt just a bit rubbery.
And although he could feel chills start to run through him, leaving him feeling a little light-headed with shock, if anyone had happened to see him in that moment, they’d have said that he looked, more than anything else, desperately puzzled.
James Cluley blinked rapidly as he stepped away from the shade and back into the bright sunlight beyond. His gait was still not quite steady as he approached the boy’s father, and he had to fight a cowardly urge to simply turn around and walk away. Let somebody else do the dirty work, instead. But he knew he couldn’t do that. It simply wouldn’t be right.
He took a few deep breaths and tried to arrange the proper words, in order, in his mind. But how exactly did you go about telling a man that his only son was dead?
Robert Jones was now standing alone, since the others had wandered off to watch the resumed match, and the groundsman stiffened his spine as he approached him. Perhaps it would be better to ask his wife to be present? Or would that only make matters worse? Although Erica Jones had never struck him as the type who became hysterical at the drop of a hat, you never could tell how people would react to shocking news.
He was still rather fruitlessly trying to think of the best way to break the news, when the Lord of the Manor spotted him shuffling about and looking vaguely lost, and somewhat impatiently spoke up first.
‘He’s not there then, I take it?’ Robert Jones asked briefly.
The older man swallowed hard, and looked off somewhere slightly over the Lord of the Manor’s right shoulder. ‘Oh no, sir, he’s there all right, Sir Robert,’ James corrected him politely.
His voice, even to his own ears, sounded as if it was coming from somewhere far away, and he blinked, then swallowed hard. But as he met the other man’s vaguely irritated-looking gaze, he once more felt his gorge rise, and had to swallow hard once more.
There had been something so utterly permanent, so inhumanly intractable, about Tris Jones’s silent and still body. James had never actually seen a dead person before today. And if he could feel the cold, creeping awareness of how wrong it all was, just how much worse would it be for the boy’s father?
Robert’s eyebrows rose. ‘He’s there, is he? Well, he’d bloody well better get a move on then. You told him he was up to bat, I suppose? It doesn’t look like this chap we’ve got up now is going to amount to much,’ he predicted gloomily. ‘He’ll be out for a duck if he’s not careful.’
‘No, sir. That is, I couldn’t really tell him anything.’ James Cluley shuffled his feet uneasily as the other man shot him a questioning look. ‘And I’m very sorry, but he won’t be coming to bat for us, either,’ James heard himself say inanely, and then felt like kicking himself. What a bloody stupid thing to say, he thought helplessly. And tried again. ‘We need to call an ambulance, Sir Robert.’ He hesitated for just a fraction, and then added, ‘And the police, I reckon.’
Max Wilson was now sitting in the deck chair next to his wife and was talking quietly but seemingly quite viciously into her ear. Whatever he was saying to her was making her go slowly paler and paler, but conscious of the people all around them, she was saying little in response.
Her hands, though, as they curled around the plastic armrests of her chair, displayed stark, white knuckles and she was biting her lip, probably in an effort to prevent tears. One of the women sitting a few yards away was watching them curiously, and had obviously picked up on her friend’s tense body language.
But for all that his attention seemed to be mainly directed at his wife, he also noticed the other two men talking not far away, and his eyes were particularly speculative as they settled on the old groundsman.
‘What do you mean?’ Robert asked James next, clearly baffled by the turn in the conversation, and for a second or two, couldn’t seem to make sense of it. And then his face, which had been a trifle flushed, suddenly paled. ‘You mean to say he’s been taken ill?’ he demanded loudly, attracting more than just Max’s sharp ears this time, and began to move off quickly towards the pavilion. ‘Why the hell didn’t you just say so in the first place, man? We need a doctor. Max,’ he suddenly called over to the cricket captain as he neared the wooden structure. ‘Is Dr Warner here, do you know? Among the spectators, I mean?’ he added, waving around vaguely.
‘No, he’s off on his holidays,’ Max answered at once, scrambling up from the deck chair with a bit of an effort, and leaving his white-faced wife behind him without another thought. He walked quickly and curiously to catch up to the two older men. ‘Why, what’s up? Someone got sunstroke, have they? I’m not surprised. It’s hot enough for it. One of the old folk, is it?’ he asked, his voice almost cheerful, but his eyes going quickly from James Cluley to the powerful businessman, then back again.
‘No, nothing like that. I don’t really know what’s going on,’ Robert brushed this aside impatiently. ‘James here says that it’s Tris who has been taken poorly.’
The old groundsman desperately sought to catch Max Wilson’s eye, perhaps hoping for, rather than sensing, an actual ally who could now safely take over.
‘We need to call 999, sir. Do you have a mobile phone?’ he asked urgently. He himself had never bothered getting one of the fancy modern gizmos, though his wife was always on one.
Max, of course, had, and began to take it out of his white trouser pocket. He switched it on automatically, and began to punch in the famous three-digit number.
‘I’ll go and stay with Tris,’ Robert said, and was astonished when the old man moved impertinently to block hi
s way.
‘Best not, Sir Robert,’ James Cluley said respectfully but firmly. He may not be very good in a crisis, but at least he had enough about him to know that that was not a good idea.
Not surprisingly, the Lord of the Manor began to argue. He was not a man who was used to being thwarted, and certainly not by someone of James Cluley’s status.
Max, who still had his eyes fixed on James’s face, lifted the mobile to his mouth and began to talk quietly to the emergency services. His eyes were narrowed and thoughtful, and continued to dart about, as if unable to settle. Periodically, he spoke abruptly into the phone.
‘No, I’m not sure of the nature of the incident, but it’s obviously serious. Yes, I’ll hold on. I can put a man out on the road, if you like, to help direct the ambulance to the back of the field, where the access is better. It’s only a narrow lane, and hardly ever used. Yes, I’ll do that.’
He nodded to one plump young man, who’d been sitting on the boundary line and had clearly overheard the entire exchange. He’d risen to his feet, obviously keen to volunteer and wore an enquiring look on his face. At a nod from his team captain, he walked rapidly across the field, heading towards the lane.
Sir Robert, in the meantime, was still staring at James Cluley, resolutely blocking his path. It was clear the groundsman wasn’t about to budge, no matter how much Sir Robert was trying to badger him to do just that. Finally, realizing that it was hopeless, he stopped trying to force his way past.
‘Look, I think I deserve at least an explanation, don’t you?’ the wealthy businessman finally said, but for once his voice lacked the authority it usually carried. His colour was now turning chalk-white as the gravity of the disaster began to seep in. ‘If my son needs me, I should be there,’ he added, more desperate than angry now. ‘I may not know first aid, but just my presence may help assure him. Is he having a heart attack? Just what’s the matter with him, man?’
James couldn’t quite meet the other man’s eye. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I believe your son is … I mean, I don’t think that there’s anything that you can do for him. That is – well, he’s gone, Sir Robert. There’s simply nothing that you can do,’ he repeated helplessly. And again swallowed hard as the sheer enormity of it swept over him once again.
A man was dead. But somehow, James Cluley still couldn’t quite make himself believe that it was true. Although he knew that it was.
In the stark silence that followed this pronouncement, Robert Jones made once more to move quickly past the groundsman, but again the old man dodged, deliberately blocked his passage.
‘Sir, I really don’t think you ought to see,’ James insisted grimly. ‘There’s something wrong about it. I mean, I don’t think the police will want you to interfere with things. You know, like …’ But here he broke off, simply not able to talk about things like disturbing evidence or contaminating a crime scene.
Max slowly lowered the phone he was holding to his ear and said quietly, ‘Are you saying that it’s not a heart attack or something?’ His voice was hoarse now. ‘You actually mean to say you think that there’s been foul play, James?’ he asked.
Unfortunately, his voice carried quite clearly on the heavy, quiet, somnolent air, and soon the small crowd of people around them began to hum with a disconcerted murmur as the news began to filter through that some kind of tragedy seemed to be unfolding.
James Cluley, who was feeling more and more incapable of speech, simply nodded at the captain of the home team.
Inside, he felt truly sick with dread.
Sir Robert Jones looked vaguely around him, as if everything had become suddenly strange and alien to him, and then he stumbled to the nearest vacant deck chair and sank down heavily.
Instantly a few matrons hustled to his side, to offer company and sympathy. Someone rushed off for a cup of tea.
Lorcan Greeves had been watching these events unfold from his position, lounging on the grass a little off to one side of the pavilion. Now he rose, with a little difficulty and a certain amount of huffing and puffing, to his feet, and tried to stroll as casually as possible towards Max Wilson.
It wasn’t easy to look unconcerned, however, when he desperately wanted to know what was being said. And even more importantly, what was being done.
He nodded a brief hello to one of the cricket players not currently in the match, which was still ongoing behind them, and finally fetched up beside Max.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked quietly. And then, when the cricket captain looked at him with his usual mixture of impatience and disinterest, shrugged a little shyly, and added affably, ‘I thought I might be able to help with something.’
‘Well, you can’t,’ Max said shortly. ‘Not unless you’re a doctor. Or maybe a faith healer who can raise the dead.’
Lorcan tensed. He could feel the half-hearted smile on his face freeze, and looked briefly away. But he was so used to other men treating him like someone of absolutely no consequence, that the lack of respect barely touched him.
‘Sorry? I don’t quite follow you,’ he said, spreading his hands to show his bafflement. ‘Someone’s been taken ill, I take it? But don’t these dos usually have a St John ambulance man about or something?’ he asked vaguely, looking around, as if he could conjure one up out of thin air.
He’d usually found that it paid to be irritating sometimes. People tended to say more when they were trying to get rid of you, and didn’t realize how much they gave away when they didn’t think of you as any kind of threat.
‘I hardly think a local cricket derby rates something as grand as that,’ Max said bitingly, looking worriedly at Robert Jones’s slumped figure. He was trying to make sense of what was happening, and what it all meant, which was hard with Lorcan hanging around and droning on like a pesky fly. Like James Cluley, he too was feeling sick with worry. If only Lorcan would sod off and let him think for a minute.
But the other man clearly had no intention of being so obliging.
‘So who’s been taken ill?’ Lorcan persisted instead. ‘A spot of sunstroke was it, I expect? I can see how that would happen. It’s still so damned hot, and getting hotter, I reckon. Wouldn’t be surprised if today doesn’t turn out to be a record-breaker – the hottest on record, that sort of thing. You’d think once you were past four o’clock, the heat would start to abate, wouldn’t you? But I reckon we’re all in for a really sticky night as well. It’ll be impossible to sleep, you mark my words.’
‘Oh for Pete’s sake, stop rattling on! And it’s a bit more serious than that,’ Max hissed, exasperated. ‘Tris is dead,’ and then he amended hastily, ‘at least, I think so. That’s what James Cluley said, anyway,’ he back-tracked fast. It wouldn’t look good to know more than he should.
Lorcan felt the colour washing out of his face, and his mouth went dry whilst his throat seemed to close up tight. For a second, he felt as if a constricting band had been looped around his chest, making his ribs start to ache, and then he drew in a long, shuddering breath.
‘James Cluley?’ he echoed stupidly. ‘You say that Tris is dead?’ And then, when his companion, perhaps alerted to something odd in his voice, suddenly took a closer look at him, he quickly half-turned away. ‘How awful,’ he managed to mutter. And, realizing just how inadequate that must sound, added, ‘His poor father. Let’s hope James has got it wrong. He’s just an old man after all, he might have got things muddled.’
Max nodded automatically, but he rather doubted it. He doubted it very much, but he said, ‘Yes, perhaps.’
Much to the cricket captain’s intense relief, Lorcan then drifted off in that vague, silent, helpless way that was so typical of the man, but Max was just glad that he’d gone at last.
Right now he needed a clear head.
He had to think – how best to minimize the danger? What was likely to happen now? But, above all, only one thought was uppermost in his mind.
Just what the hell was he going to do about Michelle?
Lo
rcan wandered as far away from the crowd as he could get without looking conspicuous, and then glanced around. People were beginning to cotton on to the fact that something out of the ordinary had happened, and were congregating in little groups, chatting with a mixture of animation, pleasant alarm and, in some cases, genuine concern. Out on the field, the match was now being held in abeyance, with the umpire beginning to look rather comically cross. As he looked on, he saw the panama-hatted man beckon the captain of the visiting team over, and obviously demanding an explanation for what was interfering with the state of play.
Lorcan reached hastily into his trouser pocket and withdrew his own mobile phone. With a final glance to make sure that no one was within earshot, he punched up the memory and selected a familiar number and hit the speed dial.
He didn’t have to wait long for it to be answered.
‘It’s me,’ he said flatly. And then, with a growing sense of panic, he hissed desperately, ‘Just what the hell did you do?’
Jenny was just eating the last of the mini-quiches (bacon and wild mushroom with a hint of thyme and sage), when the news of the catastrophe spread to the pavilion.
It was Erica’s voice which alerted them all first, which had risen above the more general din.
‘What do you mean, dead? How can he be dead?’ she exclaimed.
Not unnaturally, this stopped all conversation within hearing distance, both inside the building and out, as everyone took a moment to process what they’d just heard.
Jenny also froze for a moment, and then, along with all the others, looked quickly across to Erica, and took in the fact that she had been addressing Max Wilson, who was standing just inside the doorway. She then saw him say something in response to the agitated redhead, but his voice was too muted and pitched just too low for her to catch it.
Not that she really needed to as it turned out, for a moment later, it was quickly repeated by the redhead.
‘Tris?’ Erica screeched, her voice cracking with disbelief. ‘Are you sure? I mean, where is he? Have you seen him? Perhaps there’s been a mistake of some kind.’ Her words came out sharply, like a series of volleys from a cannon.