Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  So many of the pubs in the more popular parts of Clerehaven were undergoing makeovers and emerging with 1930s decor and changed names — the latest the Toddies’ Den. In the One-eyed Rat, there was an open fire, brass gleamed, oak settles lined the walls; its enduring ordinariness was a delight to those who knew it. ‘But they’re going down like ninepins all over town. I’m holding out,’ the landlord said to Inez.

  ‘Stout fella.’ Inez took her bottle of wine and a glass to a settle beside the fire.

  The landlord leaned over the counter and looked down on the armadillo’s bright, uplifted face. ‘I’m warning you — any more getting into fights and singing filthy songs and you’re out. For good. Oh … All right.’ He pitched a packet of Things in a crackly bag over the counter. The armadillo caught it expertly, scuttled under Inez’s settle and began the systematic destruction of the bag and consumption of its contents.

  Early evening, winter, the pub was quiet. There was no piped music, no juke box, but always magazines and newspapers about. Inez chose one and sat reading peacefully for a while; then her friend Dora came in. She took a glass from the bar, bought a packet of Things and, sitting down beside Inez, put it carefully on the floor. It disappeared at once. ‘Hallo,’ Dora said to underneath the settle. Tearing sounds answered her.

  Inez poured wine into Dora’s glass and they settled to a gossip.

  Dora led the generous and gracious kind of life usually described as exemplary: charities, church work, school governorship, civic responsibility. Her husband, diffident and charming, considered — immovably — that civilisation depended on the values and lifestyle of people like themselves and trusted her implicitly to uphold them. Inez suspected it had never occurred to him that inside this dearly loved wife, mother, grandmother, there lurked a rebel, never finding an outlet, expressing itself in quirky humour, subversion, and drinking in the One-eyed Rat with Inez.

  Dora asked, ‘Have you come across Jaynie lately?’

  ‘Come across? What are you talking about? Don’t we all hide in shop doorways?’

  ‘Oh, all right. When did you last see her? Oblige me by thinking, you idiotic serving wench.’

  ‘Well, um … Friday lunchtime. The Cosa Nostra. I was waiting for June, who was late, and Jaynie gate-crashed.’

  Dora said nothing and looked thoughtful. Inez said, ‘Oh, please, she’s disappeared. Someone’s locked her in a cupboard to give us all a bit of peace. Dear Evelina’s done her in and buried her under the floorboards.’

  ‘It’d serve her right, she behaved with appalling insensitivity at the Friends’ meeting.’ ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘But, Index, this is serious. The way I work it out, no one’s seen her for three days.’

  ‘Three … ’ Inez took this in. ‘Three. Jaynie can’t stay invisible for five minutes, never mind three days — and over a weekend. I didn’t realise. Does anybody — I mean, have you asked … ’ she floundered.

  ‘Yes. Tactfully as poss. Well, we’re all being so tactful we’re practically strangulated.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘The Camerons invited her to their drinks party Saturday lunchtime — ’

  ‘Pitifully misguided creatures.’

  ‘Yes. Well, she simply didn’t turn up, and not one word from her afterwards which, for all her faults, is not like Jaynie. She wasn’t at church on Sunday — ’

  ‘Do you think God’s decided he doesn’t like her?’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Index. This is becoming difficult and embarrassing. I don’t want to poke my nose in, but in the event of nobody doing anything, I have a proposal.’

  ‘Oh, golly yes.’ Inez, feckless and irresponsible, was confident that whatever Dora suggested would be the right thing.

  ‘So far, the latest I’ve managed to discover is — well, you saw her Friday lunchtime, but Friday evening — early evening — her neighbour across the road — ’

  ‘The one with all the poodles?’

  ‘Yes. She saw Jaynie driving away. Since then, she did rather wonder at not seeing her about, so yesterday she went up the path and saw milk bottles not taken in, mail hanging out of the letter box. Now, Index, in view of that, we must ask around.’

  ‘Oh, God, must we?’ Inez groaned.

  ‘Yes. It’s the decent thing to do. Supposing she’s had an accident or … ’ She studied her friend’s face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well … ’ Inez thought back to the mind-stunning interlude at the Cosa Nostra. ‘I’m sorry, it’s difficult to remember, I was just on autopilot — but she hinted about a date — or a meeting — or something. With a man.’

  Dora looked bemused. ‘A man?’

  ‘Yes, dear. They’re the ones with dicks.’

  ‘But Jaynie’s dead set against men — ever since Arthur left her. It’s true there are plenty of chaps interested in her because of her looks, but she hasn’t … She’s never … Are you trying to tell me she’s having an affair?’

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Door, is that I wasn’t listening to the bloody woman. All I did was register that she was being arch and secretive and congratulating herself about something — I don’t know.’

  ‘Think, dear girl, this could put a different complexion on things.’

  Inez thought, unavailingly. ‘An assignation — or an assignment.’

  ‘Definitely those words?’

  ‘Um, no. One of them. Or something. Door, why does this put a different thingy on things?’

  ‘Well, just supposing she’s gone off for a few illicit — or even licit — days with some chap? The last thing she’d want is us asking questions all over the place.’

  ‘Do you think she has?’

  Dora, sensible, intelligent, considered. ‘No. And I don’t know why. Well … if her absence was planned she would have given her apologies to the Camerons. Wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Not if she was in the grip of a hopelessly consuming passion. She could have flung caution to the … ’ Inez faltered to a stop beneath Dora’s resigned stare.

  ‘You’ve been reading the slosh page in women’s mags again, haven’t you? Look, I do think we must try to find out something, clarify the situation — but in view of what we know, or don’t know, this calls for kid gloves. Bear that in mind, Watson. Tact.’

  ‘Oh, God, yes, Holmes. Ratiocinate discreetly all over the place.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dora was the first to leave the One-eyed Rat. Inez stayed on, had a drink with friends then, at closing time, took the armadillo home. Her route took her down The Avenue, a winding road of disparate architectural styles, the older houses now smartened and restored, the new ones — like Jaynie’s expansive bungalow — showy in weedless gardens. The armadillo came upon a driveway so deeply interesting Inez had to go after him. ‘Oh, come on, old chap. You’re always noseying about something.’

  A light flickered on, off, at the perimeter of her vision; followed by a sound — a gate closing. It never occurred to her to examine this evidence of her senses until she had hauled the armadillo on to the pavement. Then she saw Nella — who could only have emerged from Jaynie’s bungalow — walking briskly away into the misty darkness.

  Her instantaneous reaction was: Well, there we are, all a storm in a teacup. I must tell Dora. Jaynie’s home, Nella’s just visited her —

  And then the astonished backlash: When did Nella ever visit Jaynie?

  The figure trotted busily round the corner, passed from sight. Inez strolled along the wall and high hedge of Jaynie’s front garden until she came to the wrought-iron gates; they were shut. Standing close to them — having a slantwise view through the bushes that lined the drive — Inez could not make out any glimmer of light from the bungalow. It was hardly the thing to do, knock on the door at this hour … ‘Oh, there you are, Jaynie. Good show. Door and I thought someone had kidnapped you.’

  No.

  She stood indecisively, then leaned down and clipped the armadillo’s lead on. ‘It’ll do tomorro
w, won’t it?’ She glanced towards the bungalow then down at the pointed muzzle, lifted interestedly to her. ‘Well, it could have been worse. It could have been a man in a black mask with a bag marked Swag.’

  *

  She could hardly telephone Dora because her cantankerous mother-in-law — towards whom Dora behaved with saintly patience — grumbled furiously about calls after nine. The morning, then.

  But the morning brought a collapse of Inez’s tottering car battery (she must, must buy a new one). She had an early class and — having borrowed jump leads from her neighbour and arrived at college in roughly the same style as Batman — entirely forgot about speaking to Dora. When she remembered, in the evening, she also remembered that Dora was doing a one-day perambulation around relatives with her mother-in-law so that the old lady could make a complete nuisance of herself in households other than Dora’s.

  *

  Next morning was market day, always a joy to Inez: the stalls, crammed together, long outspilling the medieval square, but still the bustle, the bargains, the gossip. Friends gathered, met for coffee; Inez found herself next to Nella in the lace-tableclothed Spider’s Web tearooms.

  Inez said, without thought, ‘Well, now we know Jaynie’s back.’

  Nella stared at her, stony-faced, said expressionlessly, ‘What? Who?’ As if she had never heard the name before.

  Inez remembered, too late. The Row. Everyone went to such polite lengths to overlook it, and Nella and Jaynie managed a kind of social interaction where it never surfaced, so that Inez was not the only one to forget it had ever happened. She found herself incoherent. ‘Well, but she was — no one’s seen — everyone wondered — and, Monday night — her house — I thought … ’

  Nella continued to stare at her. Inez clamped her mouth shut, determined not to be provoked. But Nella inclined towards her, diction of sawmill penetration; there was, for an instant, a terrifying reprise of Grandmother Georgina. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Inez.’

  She turned away with a smile so superior Inez’s reaction was spontaneous. ‘Oh, haven’t you? Then it wasn’t you calling on her on Monday evening?’

  ‘Calling? On … ’ Nella left the name unspoken. True Lynchet tactic; they ordered the universe to suit themselves; if they wished not to know someone, ergo, the unfortunate bugger didn’t exist.

  But it was not like Nella to be so unsubtle; personal animosity, out in the open, embarrassed everyone — and made Nella vulnerable. Perhaps Nella was growing more into her grandmother’s role, perhaps her career as Alfred’s surrogate was sending her a little out of balance.

  Nella stared somewhere beyond Inez. ‘It’s terribly bad form to go around repeating gossip. But still, everyone knows you arty and unreliable types go in for hallucinations.’

  ‘I don’t …’ Inez began, but Nella had turned away and begun a conversation with someone else.

  *

  The morning of the following day Dora telephoned. Inez said, ‘I remembered Jaynie said something about Marguerite Dean — you know, she’s the boutique. So I called in there yesterday, had a tactful word.’

  ‘Had she seen her?’

  ‘No, Jaynie was supposed to telephone her, but she didn’t. She is a bit scatterbrained anyway, so Marguerite didn’t think much about it.’

  ‘Mmm. No joy with me, either. And it’s five days.’

  What could she say, about Nella coming out of Jaynie’s gate, about Nella’s screamingly obvious dishonest reaction? Some instinct she could not name made her swallow this information; dissemble — to her dear, dear friend. Thank God they weren’t face to face: one look and Dora would know she was hiding something. It was that appalling Jaynie brought you to such straits. ‘Um, Door, have you thought of asking Nella … ?’

  ‘Darling, have you got softening of the brain? Nella. Nella wouldn’t care if no one set eyes on Jaynie ever again.’

  True enough. ‘Door, how could anyone mislay Jaynie?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what do we … ?’

  ‘I’ll phone Arthur, it’s the only thing I can think of. I’ll get back to you.’

  When she did it was to report that Arthur was away, with his new wife, walking in the Lakes — ‘His secretary doesn’t know precisely where, and none of the other staff will. All they know is he’s due back in two days. ’

  ‘That’ll make it … if she doesn’t … ’

  ‘Yes. Index, I’ve got a nasty feeling about this.’

  ‘Me, too. Are we being fanciful? This middle-class diffidence about interfering in people’s private affairs … ’

  ‘Yes. But we must be practical, and Christian. Who knows where she is or what has … Well, we can’t contact Arthur. I’d try her children but I don’t know where to find them. I don’t even know their names. Do you?’

  ‘Er … Tom and Maggie Tulliver.’

  ‘Oh, God, I can always rely on you to be ridiculous,’ Dora said wearily. ‘There’s only one thing now. So who contacts the police?’ After a small silence, Inez said, ‘Door, that’s — er — pretty extreme.’

  ‘Yes. But I think it’s something we should do.’

  ‘You. You have gravitas.’

  ‘I’ve got a tight schedule, too. Oh, all right.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was called an inner city area, although any association with the lives of people busying themselves, deriving meaning from productiveness, from industry, from the worth of everyday achievement, had long since disappeared.

  Blighted, broken down: empty warehouses, abandoned factories, deserted workshops. Heaving concrete, mangled wire fencing, graffiti too tired now to proclaim anything except hopelessness — and in amongst this detritus, this scarred and violent dereliction, suddenly, amazingly: a pale blue BMW 325.

  As it was late, and dark, no one was about to see who had abandoned it; the meths drinkers and bag people had the comfort of company and the warmth of their fire over half a mile away, closer to the sleepless housing estate, where at least there were humanity and voices, and the perambulating soup and buns of the caring.

  The BMW was less than a year old, in perfect condition and full working order; such good fortune had never before visited this destroyed landscape.

  By the next morning the osmosis that operates in desperate areas ensured that within hours every part of it that could be turned to profit had been removed: tax disc, battery, number plates, radio, windscreen wipers, wheels; petrol siphoned from the tank.

  After it had been stripped down to a shell, it was the turn of the kids who, eventually, tired of ripping and smashing and wrenching, set fire to it.

  During the night a storm broke, a roaring wind, drenching downpours of rain. The rain continued most of the next day, until every evidence of ownership of the car — incinerated, vandalised — was washed away.

  The only immovable identification, the chassis number, stamped into the metalwork, could not be obliterated except by filing, and there was no one sophisticated enough to do that, or even see any reason to.

  *

  The area known as Hasley Bridge stood on the western edge of Chatfield. Although it had the melancholy, dilapidated aspect of a place fallen upon hard times, vandalism had not overwhelmed it. There were enclaves of respectability: cramped terraces, grimy but cared-for, with donkey-stoned steps, sparkling white net curtains; a small sixties development, all matchboard, straight lines and struggling gardens; the occasional huddle of pre-war semis, bay windows, pretty front doors with stained glass ovals. It was the once grand merchants’ houses that suffered most. As late as the 1950s they were in single occupancy — the front door opened by an aproned maid; tradesmen side door only; a gardener at work amongst the rose arbours and rockeries. Forty years on, they were abandoned to the creeping decay of bedsits and single rooms, DSS bed and breakfast; proud carriageways crammed with every variety of vehicle from a broken perambulator to a rust-eaten Ford Escort, the shaven lawns and raked drives no more than a memory.


  The grandest of these, Old Park House, was completely derelict, a skeleton bounded by vanished securities — the double gates destroyed, the garden walls a tumble of broken brick and twisted, slender railings, grounds litter-strewn, rampantly overgrown.

  But just as some urban deity kept Hasley Bridge from complete decline so local superstition kept people away from Old Park House. Although not entirely. Those who knew used it as a hiding place for their various concerns, the roofless rooms still providing corners for concealment, odd recesses for privacy and shelter.

  Every Wednesday evening that was exactly what the couple went in search of. They were local, they knew how to approach, separately, seeking out the darkened areas between the street lights, the shelter of massive shrubs and old trees; turning abruptly into the narrow track (when it was originally laid down, wide enough only for a cart). A few quick paces along and they could slip into the side of the house — wait in the remains of an elegant side porch — meet, clasp, pant, grope.

  There were few words, their adulterous affair was flaring, dangerous, and discovery would make their lives unendurable — which they pretty much approached now — but here, in the winter, out of the everyday, they could lose themselves in an hour of uninhibited rutting. That was how he might have expressed it, had he dared tell anyone. For her the buried longing for romance stayed buried; she was forty-five, the mother of three, not much came her way — which made her philosophically inclined to accept whatever was on offer.

  The upstairs of Old Park House was much too dangerous to venture into, their territory was the still stout-walled and partially roofed old butler’s pantry which they found ideally met their requirements. The woman, ever practical, had a folded plastic sheet in her large handbag — but that night saw a dreadful curtailment in its use.

  There was the smell first. They were accustomed to smells of every strength and offensiveness which they were able to ignore not by an act of will so much as by the deodorising reflex of sexual arousal. But this barrier — cloying, sickly — they penetrated too abruptly, then reeled from the full impact of its stench, held aghast by a havoc of images: the prone figure, tangle of gold hair, blue, swollen lips, maggot-seething flesh... The defenceless, outflung arm. The slender white hand clenched to a fist.