Abandoned by his mother, Maurice had lived with his father, Peter, until he left home at the age of sixteen, with no qualifications apart from a GCSE in technology.
He had a police record, beginning with an ASBO banning him from the streets of Swindon, which he’d broken with regularity.
As he grew up, he turned into a regular shop-lifter, eventually spending a few months in prison.
Along with a bunch of friends from that prison sojourn, Maurice had taken part in the armed robbery of a building society in Swindon, driving the getaway vehicle. Apparently accident-prone, he’d managed to run the car and its three passengers straight into a police car speeding towards the crime scene.
As the car had provided overwhelming evidence of guilt, including lavishly finger-printed sawn-off shotguns, a set of balaclava masks, and a bag full of used notes totalling twenty thousand pounds, justice had been swift. Maurice had been banged up for ten years and let out after five.
At least, Max discovered, the man had never been accused of direct violence, although one of his companions had hit an old man with the butt of his gun during the robbery.
After leaving prison, he’d changed jobs and names with regularity, losing contact with both his parents. His father appeared to have written his son off long ago and moved north, where he currently lived with his second wife in Manchester.
Despite the man’s criminal record, Max found little to suggest either that Maurice would set out to murder his mother, or that he would have the originality or computing skills to send nursery rhyme emails from untraceable addresses to people he couldn’t know. As Max, wrapped in a towel, hair still wet from the shower, was about to head downstairs for the kind of fat-fuelled fried egg, bacon and sausage breakfast Libby wanted him to avoid, Libby rang.
He yawned again as he answered the phone.
‘Another late-night session at your desk?’ Libby chuckled. ‘Did you eat properly?’
‘Coffee, mostly. I was planning an enormous breakfast, full of carbs, until you rang – but now I feel guilty.’
‘One big breakfast won’t hurt. Enjoy yourself. Listen, though, I wanted to tell you something.’
There was a serious note in Libby’s voice that set a nerve in Max’s cheek twitching. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, really, except that I got one of those emails this morning.’
‘A rhyme?’ Max bit his lip. He shouldn’t really feel surprised. The rhymes seemed to be spreading like wildfire.
‘Ding Dong Bell. Do you know it?’
‘I most certainly do. One of the nastiest rhymes my mother sang to me, I always thought.’ He murmured,
‘Ding dong bell
Pussy’s in the well.
Who put him in?
Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled him out?
Little Johnny Stout.
What a naughty boy was that
To try to drown poor pussy cat
Who ne’er did any harm
But killed all the mice in the farmer’s barn.’
‘Wow. I thought you’d need to look it up. Max, I know I’m being silly, but I suppose Fuzzy’s all right, is she? You’re at home, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sure she’s upstairs, but I’ll go and check, and get back to you.’
Max searched in the airing cupboard, under the stairs and in every bedroom, but there was no sign of Fuzzy. Refusing to admit to anxiety, he moved through the downstairs rooms, but still no Fuzzy.
Now, he was worried. What would he tell Libby if her cat had disappeared?
He tried to put himself into Fuzzy’s mind. What did a cat think about? Food, mostly, he supposed. Did Fuzzy like to catch her own mice at night? But, she’d been inside while he worked. He’d come back from the kitchen once, to find her stretched out on his keyboard, and he was sure she’d moved to a cosy spot beside the boiler. How could a slightly overweight, marmalade cat have escaped from a house with no cat flap, in the middle of winter when all the windows except the one in Max’s bedroom were closed?
Shipley appeared, wet nose thrust into Max’s hand, as if in sympathy.
‘Where’s she gone?’ Max asked.
Shipley gazed at him.
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
Shipley shifted his weight, as though about to run.
‘Oh, very well. Show me.’
Shipley trotted off, leading the way to Max’s study.
‘She’s not in here. I looked.’
Shipley went into his ‘frozen’ pose, eyes fixed on the French door.
Max walked across and touched the door with one hand. It moved a little. ‘That’s odd. I’m sure I locked it last night.’ He went outside and examined the door. There was no sign of forced entry. ‘Maybe I hadn’t locked it and the wind blew it open? Is that how Fuzzy escaped?’ he asked Shipley, who’d followed him out. ‘Pity you can’t speak,’ Max muttered.
Back in his study, he stood in the centre of the floor and let his gaze roam over every inch of the room. Peace reigned, and nothing was out of place. Not on the bookshelves, nor on the coffee table where Max liked to rest his feet.
He shuffled the papers on his desk. Nothing seemed to be missing, and the rest of the desk was tidy. The mouse lay further away from the computer than usual, but that meant very little.
‘Shipley, no one’s been here. I must have left the door on the latch by mistake. I was tired. Now, the question is, where did that cat go, and if she’s lost, what do I say to Libby? We’d better get outside again and find her. Wait a minute.’ He grabbed the cat bed and held it to Shipley’s nose. ‘Have a good sniff at that and help me find this cat.’
Shipley followed him through the door, into the garden. Once outside, he quartered the garden, sniffing in circles, nose low to the ground, tail in the air, stopping at intervals to investigate.
Appearing to pick up Fuzzy’s scent, he trotted off towards an apple tree at the end of the garden, stopped and barked.
Fuzzy appeared, fur raised in a ruff at her neck, back arched.
Shipley barked again, but Fuzzy stood her ground. The dog wagged his tail.
Fuzzy hissed.
‘Leave her alone, boy,’ Max advised.
Shipley, instead, moved closer. For a long moment, the two animals faced each other, then Fuzzy leapt in the air, landing inches away from Shipley and dealing him a sharp whack in the face with her paw.
The dog turned tail and ran back into the house.
Max, deciding an angry cat was best left outside, followed Shipley indoors and inspected his nose for scratches. ‘No damage done, idiot dog.’
Fuzzy sauntered inside, wandering past Shipley as though he didn’t exist. Meekly, Shipley let her pass.
‘She’s definitely the boss, Ships.’
Relieved, Max sent a text to Libby, telling her all was well with the cat. Then, he sat for a long time at his desk, fingering the mouse and wondering. He’d never left the door unlocked before. Especially in winter.
Libby, alone in her nondescript hotel room, read Max’s text with relief. Fuzzy was safe. Still, she couldn’t shake off a mild attack of self-pity. She should have been getting married in a few days, and it didn’t seem fair to be stuck half-way up the motorway in a faceless hotel.
‘Maybe a spot of retail therapy will help,’ she told Bear. ‘Bristol has plenty of Christmas market stalls just now, and they’re outdoors, so you can come too.’ She called Max, wanting to hear his voice again. ‘I’m coming home later today, now the weather’s cleared, but I thought I’d stop off in Bristol and do some shopping. You know, for the wedding, and Christmas.’
‘Christmas?’ he’d said, as though he’d never heard of it.
‘It’s only a few weeks away. I won’t even ask if you’ve done any present shopping.’
The groan on the other end of the phone told her all she needed to know.
‘I suppose, as we’ll be married by then, you think I should do all the shopping for both of us,�
� she said.
‘Good idea. By the way, I found out plenty about Maurice’s background. ’Max shared the results of his researches.
She said, ‘Claire thinks he’s unlikely to have killed his mother, though, psychologically speaking. It hardly ever happens.’
‘But, we can’t rule him out, yet. He may be the exception that proves the rule.’
Libby’s spirits rose as they talked, and by the time she’d checked out of the hotel, she was humming ‘We Wish you a Merry Christmas’ to herself.
‘Come on, Bear. Let’s shop until we drop.’
The skies, so grey and sodden yesterday, had gradually cleared, and before long, the sun shone brightly in a blue sky, with hardly a cloud to be seen.
The streets of Bristol were alive. Libby smelled mulled wine, hot dogs and bacon baps, as she threaded her way through the pop-up Christmas stalls. ‘It’s just as well Shipley isn’t here,’ she told Bear, as she took a long breath, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, clove and orange. ‘These smells would drive him crazy.’
On the corner, a Salvation Army band launched into carols. Libby hummed along to ‘The First Noel’, ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, and ‘We Three Kings’, dropped coins in the collecting bag and wandered from one stall to another, buying gifts for everyone she could think of: a silver necklace for Ali, a jewel-encrusted spider pendant on a purple ribbon for Mandy, and dangly earrings for Sarah. Buying for her pregnant daughter-in-law made her smile. This time next year, she’d be a granny, and with any luck, the baby would visit at Christmas, to crawl around under the Christmas tree and pull Fuzzy’s tail.
She spent a long time choosing baby clothes.
‘Is it for a boy or a girl?’ asked the stallholder.
‘I’ve no idea, yet, but I want things that are cheerful, in green or yellow, not pastel pink or blue.’
The stallholder smiled. ‘These are from Brazil. They like bright colours over there, where the sun shines and they dance the samba.’
‘Perfect.’
Speaking of Brazil reminded Libby of Ali. She’d need a new dress for the wedding, and she probably wouldn’t bring anything special with her, so Libby searched through the stalls for velvet dresses. Ali would love something vintage.
As Libby flicked through a rail of twenties and thirties clothes, a low growl from Bear stopped her in her tracks. ‘What’s the matter?’
He growled again. Libby could see nothing nearby that was likely to upset him, but he pulled on the lead, tugging her away from the stall.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll have to come back later. My dog has a mind of his own.’
She gazed into the crowd, expecting to see a familiar face among the shoppers milling around. She couldn’t imagine who’d have that effect on Bear. Who had the friendly animal ever disliked? He loved everybody, except when they attacked Libby or one of her friends.
She scrutinised nearby faces, all red-nosed and pink-cheeked from the cold air, their heads insulated by woolly hats. She saw nobody she knew, and Bear had relaxed. It must have been a false alarm. Perhaps it was his rheumatism making him grumpy. If that was the case, he needed to get somewhere warm as soon as possible.
The shopping trip had lost its charm. ‘Come on, Bear, let’s get back to the car and drive home.’
25
Cottage
When Libby wanted to think, she often turned to baking. There was something so comforting about beating eggs and sugar together, even when her industrial-grade mixer did the work.
Back at the cottage, she ran a finger along a shelf crammed with ingredients; vanilla, elderflower cordial… It made her mouth water just to look at them.
As she tasted, discarded, and tasted again, her mind roamed freely over the events in Exham and Bristol. She was worried about Max. She’d learned to lean heavily on his unflappable good sense, but just now he was anxious and distracted – not surprising, given Stella’s attention-grabbing fake suicide attempt, swiftly followed by the death of her latest man friend.
Her phone rang. Angela, keen to talk about the imminent opening of the café, could hardly restrain her enthusiasm. ‘The trouble is, Libby, it’s so cold in the shop, I think my nose is about to drop off. Could I come round and chat?’
The doorbell rang before Libby had done more than wash her hands.
But it wasn’t Angela on the doorstep.
‘Ali?’
Libby dropped the towel she was using to wipe cake mixture from her arms and enveloped her daughter in a hug. She’d been longing for this moment for so many months, and had begun to doubt Ali would ever come home.
‘Hi, Mum. I’m pleased to see you, too, but can I come in? It’s freezing out here.’
Libby choked back tears. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, stupidly. ‘You’re not due for more than a week.’
Ali laughed, a sound Libby had missed so much. ‘I got a place on an earlier flight. But I have a lot to tell you. Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Just let me look at you for a moment. Sit down. I’ll make the tea. You look tired – the journey, I expect. What do you want to eat? Oh,’ she remembered, ‘Angela will be here in a moment.’
‘Angela? Oh, yes, your friend. The one who’s going to manage the café while you work part-time, solve mysteries and play at being in the police service.’
Libby opened cupboards, pulled out cake tins and coffee, grabbed mugs from a shelf. ‘How do you know all that? I’m sure I haven’t told you.’
‘No. Your emails are full of dogs, beaches and cake recipes. Fortunately, I have Robert as my spy, and he’s been telling me what you really get up to. He also regales me with long diatribes about our ancestors, who used to live around here. One was a maid in some stately home, he says.’
‘Oh yes. I’m hoping he’ll join the Exham History Society – we could do with some young input. In fact—’
Ali held up her hand. ‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘I’m not staying here for long. Just your wedding, and Christmas. Not nearly long enough to get involved in Exham life.’
Libby hid her disappointment. She’d been hoping Ali was back for good.
Ali chortled. ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking. You don’t have much of a poker face, Mum.’
‘That’s what Max says.’
‘Ah, yes. Your enigmatic fiancé. I only met him once, before I left, but I knew there was something brewing between the two of you.’
‘You couldn’t possibly know,’ Libby objected. ‘We were just friends, then.’
‘As I said – absolutely no poker face. Solved any juicy murders lately?’
Before Libby could tell her about the nursery rhyme emails, Angela arrived.
Libby looked on like a proud mother hen as Ali, no longer the petulant teenager who’d walked away from university on a whim, talked to Angela with exactly the right mix of warmth and respect.
As she watched, Libby began to wonder if all was well. Ali had lost weight. Her eyes were large and dark in a pale, almost translucent face. Surely someone who’d lived in the heat of Brazil, currently enjoying a scorching summer, should have some colour in her cheeks?
Angela refused to sit. ‘I’m not going to stay. You two must have a lot to talk about. I just wanted to show you the material for the last of the soft furnishings. I’ll leave it with you and catch up later.’
Despite Libby’s entreaties, she left, promising to return tomorrow to discuss the arrangements for opening the café.
‘Can I help with that?’ Ali asked.
‘You bet. All hands to the pump.’
Left alone with Ali, Libby hesitated. Should she mention the weight loss?
She opened her mouth and closed it again in silence. Claire had asked her to mind her own business. Like her, Ali was an adult. If she had something to tell her mother, she would choose her own moment, and if not, a few weeks of home-cooked food would fatten her up nicely. Libby began to plan menus in her head.
Bear, bored by proceedings, snored ge
ntly in the corner of the sitting room.
‘Now,’ Ali said, as they sorted through cheerful nautical striped cushion fabric and seagull-inspired tablecloths, ‘what’s going on? I feel dreadful about making you delay the wedding, and Robert said Max is furious.’
‘Did he? No, I don’t think so. Max was fine about it.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t blame him. But I couldn’t really help it. You see, Andy, that I went with – you remember Andy?’
Libby had met him briefly, as he whisked Ali away, giving Libby less than a day’s notice. She remembered a tall young man with curly hair and an air of good sense.
‘Well, Andy and I have been an item ever since we went away. You’ll like him, I promise. He’s a doctor – I think I told you, and – well, the fact is, I love him, and I love my work out there.’ She grinned, looking into Libby’s face, as though checking how her mother was taking the news. ‘Well, to cut a long story short, I’m going to be a doctor too. I have a university place out there.’
‘In Brazil?’ Libby bit her lips, determined not to fuss.
‘My interview clashed with the flight I’d planned. But I got a place on the course and I start in the New Year.’
Libby closed her eyes for a moment, trying to take in this sudden news. ‘Seriously. A doctor? In Brazil? Why not in England? Isn’t it expensive?’
‘Don’t start worrying, Mum. Just break out the champagne. Andy’s going to help pay for it. It’s all settled. I’ll work part-time, as well. I really mean it, Mum. I’m not going to give up, this time. And, by the way, I’m staying with Robert and Sarah while I’m here, so you don’t need to run around getting my room ready, or moving Mandy, or making any of those arrangements you’re planning.’
While Libby, stunned and excited, searched for words, Ali ended with a grin.
‘One more thing. If you think you’re having a quiet wedding, you’re out of luck. Robert says half of Exham is planning to be there, so you’d better be looking your best.’
Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries) Page 14