And there were still four days to go.
I shouldn’t have come. I knew I wouldn’t like it. It would be different if it was summer and I could go out more. But Henry was looking forward to it so much, and he’d have been upset if I’d refused.
She shoved dirty mugs and a couple of empty beer bottles out of the way, spread marmalade on her toast, poured a second cup of coffee and sat at the table, gazing at the choppy sea.
She had to admit that if you liked this kind of thing, the chalet, cosily called Driftwood, was in a terrific location, set just above Minster Beach, with steps leading down to the shore. And there was an assumption that everyone did like this kind of thing. Who wouldn’t want a break by the coast, and a free one at that? One of her work colleagues had even called her ‘jammy’. She couldn’t tell anyone the truth, that she disliked being by the sea, found the fathomless cold waters vast and worrying, dreaded the teasing winds. She liked woodland and parks, places with signposted paths, sheltered from the elements. If the weather had been milder, she could have sat on the decked, covered porch that ran along the front of the chalet. There were a couple of hanging heaters out there, and she’d lingered under them with Henry for a while on Sunday evening. She’d enjoyed being wrapped up in her coat and scarf, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in hand, as they watched the moonlight ripple on the quiet waves below. In the dark, the sea was almost invisible, tamed.
Viv and Damian had gone out, and it had been good to have Henry to herself in that romantic setting. He’d just drawn her close when his phone had pinged. Something to do with work, he’d said, frowning. He’d better go and make some calls. He’d vanished for a while, and then he’d told her that he had to wait for callbacks, so he was going to nip out for a drink.
‘You don’t mind, do you? You don’t really like pubs. Won’t be too late, promise.’
She’d been disappointed, but she’d agreed, of course. Henry liked to socialise and he’d find people to chat to. He was popular, always had been, had a dizzying collection of acquaintances. She’d tagged along on a few occasions when they’d first met and felt rather like a spare part because the experiences these people shared were so foreign to her. The conversations were about rugger, sailing and various other sports, stories of holidays they’d been on that involved lots of strenuous activity. All this amid a sea of alcohol.
She opened one of the sliding doors to the porch and stuck her head into the salty, bracing air. It smelled good after the hot fug of the house. She looked longingly at the white bench outside, but she didn’t want to switch the heaters on at nine in the morning. Imelda, Henry’s bossy mum, had a habit of popping in, and Saffie was nervous around her. She seemed to have lots of rules and ways of doing things, and Saffie felt that the instructions laid out in the prim welcome booklet were aimed particularly at her, as if she was the others’ chaperone or housekeeper.
I’ve set the timers for the hot water and heating. You shouldn’t need to change them and they’re a bit complicated, so it’s best if you leave them alone. Don’t alter the toaster setting — if it gets too hot, the smoke alarm will go off. You have to give the loo two quick flushes. The bin lid has a habit of springing open, so make sure you press it down.
It would be easy to transgress unwittingly, so Saffie moved around the place with caution, as if Imelda were peering over her shoulder and finding her wanting. With her brisk, cheery energy, Imelda reminded her of one of those women who’d kept the home fires burning in 1940s black-and-white films.
She should have a shower before Damian or Viv got up and used all the hot water. Or they might shower together and have noisy sex, like yesterday morning. Henry had laughed as they’d lain in bed listening, but Saffie was embarrassed. She liked quiet, private lovemaking and found Damian and Viv’s constant and uninhibited kissing, fondling and groping hard to take. The way they carried on, you’d think they’d met only yesterday. Saffie had been even more nonplussed at the sex toy they’d left lying on the shower tray. She should really get into the bathroom before them, but she didn’t move from her chair, absent-mindedly moving toast crumbs around her plate with a finger. She wished Henry would come. She glanced through the side window, at the path up to the road where his mother lived. No sign.
They’d been together for just over a year, but Saffie still caught her breath when she glimpsed him. He overwhelmed her, but she liked the sensation. He was so sure about everything, whereas she lived her life in a state of uncertainty. She wasn’t sure if this was her nature or due to being the child of immigrants. Her parents had come to London from Tehran when Saffie was five. Her first language had been Farsi, and although her English was perfect, she always had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t entitled to it.
Henry exuded confidence, he belonged. That was why she’d fallen in love with him. He masked Saffie’s insecurities. At times, she wondered if he loved the idea of her, rather than the real, self-doubting Saffie. The only thing she was certain of was her own beauty, her striking, dark-eyed looks. Henry liked watching people’s reactions when he walked in with her on his arm. They’d met in an antiques market and he referred to her as the ‘Persian princess he’d found in the bazaar’. It was said fondly, but it made her feel categorised, as if she were a collector’s item. Like an Elgin Marble or a fragment of Egyptian statuary.
She emptied the dishwasher and rinsed her breakfast things, then tidied away half a dozen empty gin and tonic cans, crisp and biscuit packets and sandwich crusts. She pressed the bin lid down firmly, recalling Imelda’s instructions, wiped the surfaces and darted to the bathroom as she heard sounds of waking from Damian and Viv’s room.
Chapter 2
DI Siv Drummond checked her phone first thing that morning to see DC Patrick Hill had already tweeted.
@DCBerminsterPolice
Today is DC Lisa Flore’s funeral. Please remember the devastating effects of drink & drug driving. Thanks for your messages, which we’ve passed to Lisa’s family. Thanks also to the majority of people who do the right thing & only drive when sober.
#KeepingBerminsterSafe
Patrick was friendly with Lisa’s family and had been hit hard by her death. He’d liked Lisa and had once asked her out, but it hadn’t worked, mainly because he’d been too preoccupied worrying about and caring for his brother. Lisa’s mother was a widow, on her own at home now that her only child was gone. Her brother, Lisa’s uncle, lived with his family in Chicago. Patrick had stepped in to help her with the bureaucracy that a funeral entailed, and Siv had told him to take the day off. He’d sent an email to everyone at the station the previous evening.
I’ve spoken to Lisa’s mum. She said there’s no need to wear black. In fact, she’d prefer it if people wear cheerful, bright colours. Ms Flore said it’s what Lisa would have wanted.
Although Lisa, being dead, had no say in the matter.
Siv hadn’t worked with Lisa long — the young constable had transferred to a domestic violence unit shortly after joining the force — but she’d liked her. A drunken New Year reveller had killed her. He’d lost control of his car, mounted the pavement by the harbour, running her over and killing himself too in a tangle of metal.
Siv descended the steps from her compact home at half past seven, sipping at a mug of tea. The steam from her drink warmed her nose. When she’d moved back to Berminster, she’d rented the renovated circus wagon at the bottom of a meadow by the river. It was tiny, snug, isolated, almost maintenance free and had provided a secure sanctuary after Ed, her husband, had been killed. She wandered along the riverbank. The biting air jolted her, rousing her dull head somewhat. She pulled up the cowl neck of the chunky purple sweater she’d bought from Corran. He and his partner Paul were her landlords. Corran was also a weaver, and he’d acquired a knitting machine on eBay and was expanding his repertoire into producing attractive clothing. The sweater was like a warm embrace on this raw morning, and Siv made the most of it. It was the only kind of hug she’d had for a while: s
he couldn’t imagine wanting one that wasn’t from Ed.
It was handy, having the River Bere as a boundary to her little home. She found its background song soothing, and she sauntered by it in all weathers. She watched the dark swift-running waters and touched a frosted, twiggy bush of rosehips. They were ice cold and firm. Clumps of gleaming snowdrops were opening on the riverbank, their green stems pushing up through the wet earth. Finches searched for mast in the beech trees. Despite everything, nature carried on, business as usual. Before her death, Lisa had been planning her birthday celebrations for later this month. They’d involved an afternoon’s go-karting, followed by a champagne supper. So much for joyful anticipation.
Time for a shower. Siv retraced her steps, pausing to bend and stroke a delicate snowdrop head. It made her smile. She decided to steer a middle course for the funeral and pair black trousers with a crimson shirt that reflected the colour of the bright rosehips.
She showered, dressed, ate a slice of toast and peanut butter, then drank another mug of tea. When she was ready to leave, she took a belted navy wool coat that she hadn’t worn for ages from the wardrobe. It was a London coat, calf-length and city smart. Ed had helped her choose it. They’d rarely shopped together and had bickered amiably as she tried on several styles. Because he’d been hanging around, she’d found herself unusually indecisive. When she’d donned this one, Ed had declared that she looked chic, then pleaded with her to just buy it before he jumped out of the nearest window.
She checked herself in the mirror. She’d do. She was still pale and skinny, but her dark hair had grown back again. No more bald patches to conceal artfully. She paid a small fortune every month at the hairdresser, her one vanity. A good haircut distracted the eye from her pallid skin and the cold sores that grieving had gifted her.
She massaged her scalp, easing the fuzzy head that the chill air hadn’t quite cleared. She woke up with one quite a few mornings, after she’d overdone the akvavit the night before. Her recycling bin was always full of bottles with a blue fish label, and last night she’d emptied one to help her numb the thoughts of this funeral. It had the desired effect, but she was aware that the aftermath wasn’t so good.
By the door, she unhooked her green leather bag from the back of a chair. Her friend Bartel had given it to her for Christmas and she loved it. It was soft leather, with two buckles and was expensive — she’d spotted it for sale in town afterwards, then had worried that she’d been a cheapskate, only giving him, in return, a few bottles of his favourite cherry vodka.
Lisa’s funeral was at one o’clock, so Siv headed to the station first. She drove slowly down the track to the road, waving to Corran as she passed him, carrying a bucket full of kitchen scraps, on his way to feed his goats. They were named after famous divas, and two of them, Judy and Nina, were crazy for banana and orange peel.
She gripped the wheel firmly with her gloved hands. This would be the first funeral she’d attended since Ed’s. Life had become a series of firsts after her husband was knocked from his bike: the first Christmas — she’d spent it alone in their London flat, eating beans on toast — the first Easter, the birthday when he should have turned thirty-four. And so it went on.
Was it getting any easier, without Ed? Not really. She was just better at muffling the pain. He didn’t talk to her quite so much these days, although he still dropped the odd comment. I can’t remember much about your funeral, she told him. I was too numb. Sorry. Hope you didn’t mind. His parents had arrived and taken over. She’d let them. They’d meant well, and she could barely speak, let alone make the necessary arrangements.
She was dreading the crematorium today, but it wasn’t about her. She had to show up and take part as Lisa’s colleague.
Chin up and sing loud, Sivster, Ed said in her ear. Lisa’s gone. The service is to comfort others.
She smiled and was about to reply when her phone rang. Sergeant Ali Carlin’s Derry accent always cheered her up, although this time, she noted, he sounded strained.
‘Hi, guv, where are you?’
‘On my way to the station. Are you there?’
‘No, I’m with Noah. Patrick had to go and help Ms Flore. She’s in a bit of a state. Her brother’s flight was delayed and he won’t arrive until mid- morning. Talk about leaving it till last minute! Noah’s carer didn’t turn up, so I’ve come round to give him a hand.’
Noah was Patrick’s brother. A stroke had left him disabled and using a wheelchair.
‘Is Noah OK?’
‘He is, aye, very natty in a seasonal shirt patterned with robins. But there’s a man who is very much not OK on the steps of the crem. We have a body to deal with. Sounds a grim scene, guv. Corpses are the crem’s bread and butter, but they’re usually in coffins.’
She listened with amazement as he described where the dead man had been found, beneath a line of wreaths, on the steps of Berminster Crematorium.
‘Who found the body?’
‘Toby Foxwell, the crem manager. Guv, what do you wanna do? Will Lisa’s funeral go ahead? It’ll be terrible if we can’t hold it, especially for her mum.’
Siv was appalled at the prospect of Lisa’s funeral being cancelled. She glanced at the time. Eight thirty. Could they have the scene processed and cleared in time?
‘I just don’t know, Ali. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Just . . . we need to let Patrick and Ms Flore know if there’s a delay or a cancellation—’
‘I’ll drive to the crematorium now and see what needs to be done. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘OK. I’ll be there when Noah’s sorted.’
Siv had been to the cemetery once before, for her father’s burial, and Ed had been there to hold her hand. It occurred to her now, as it had then, that it was like driving into the grounds of a country mansion. She’d read that the Victorians never did things simply when they could put on a show, and they’d been fascinated by death and dying and elaborate funeral rituals. If she’d been married to Ed in the nineteenth century, she’d have had to wear a black mourning dress for at least a year and shun society for two. Queen Victoria had set the bar high by wearing a full mourning outfit for Prince Albert for the rest of her life. Siv had done the shunning bit — that had been easy. Her colleagues often found her unsociable, and she’d overheard someone at the station refer to her as ‘that weirdo’.
It was so hard, not having Ed beside her. Her support and confidant, the man she’d gone home to and leaned on.
* * *
Steve Wooton, the crime scene manager, was with his team by the steps when Siv arrived at the crematorium, parking some distance away from them. The body was like an offering, laid out, ready and waiting for those who dealt with the dead. She gazed at the line of opulent wreaths. The colours jarred. She hated the things. They were gaudy and brash — give her low-key, graceful wildflowers any time.
As she approached, Steve followed her with his narrow, darting eyes. They didn’t like each other. She found him self-important. She also suspected that he didn’t like the fact that she was several inches taller than him. Ali said Steve had WMS — Wee Man Syndrome.
‘Looks like strangulation,’ Steve said. ‘Marking around the throat and petechiae.’
‘Killed here?’
‘Hard to say. Bad joke, leaving a corpse on the crem steps.’
‘Any ID?’
‘Nothing. He’s not one of the crem staff. I got the manager to take a peek. He was up for it, and I reckoned it would save time.’
She wasn’t sure that she approved of that, but she let it go. ‘I’ll just see his face.’
Steve lifted a wreath for her, exposing the man’s head and shoulders. His red-dotted eyes stared upwards. In his twenties, he had unremarkable features, silky fair hair and a wispy moustache. He was wearing a black fleece.
Siv stepped back, assessing the situation. She’d need to determine if the crematorium could keep on working today.
‘When can you
move the body, do you think? Is the pathologist arriving soon?’
He shrugged, puffing himself up. ‘Rey Anand’s on his way. I don’t see why it can’t be shifted pronto if he agrees.’
‘Where do I find the manager?’
‘Toby Foxwell’s in his office,’ Steve said chirpily. ‘He’s anxious about today’s funerals, including Lisa’s. He has a nightmare vision of hearses queueing around the block and relatives tearing their hair out. I told him it’d be your call.’
He could make it less obvious that he was relishing the difficult situation she was in. But it was indeed tricky and she’d not faced anything quite like this before. ‘Any evidence that the chapels are crime scenes?’
‘No. Foxwell usually unlocks them and this central foyer, and he found the corpse before he got round to that. I’ve checked. All doors for public access are still locked and no sign of tampering. There are double doors at the rear, leading only to the crem offices and chamber. The crem technician opened those and confirmed that they were secure when she arrived.’
Siv searched for a plan of the crematorium on her phone. There was a map on the council website detailing the numbering of the graves. Studying it, she was able to get a vague idea of the grounds. The visitors’ car park was situated at a short distance and there were separate paths from it to the chapel side entrances. Maybe with a bit of organisation, a restricted area could be preserved for mourners. If she spoke to Rey, they might be able to shift the corpse once he’d done his examination, and Lisa could have her service.
Siv left Steve and walked around the building to check the area for herself, and then headed along the path to the crematorium offices in Bere Lodge. It was a double-fronted building with a half-timbered upper floor and canted bay windows. She supposed that, when it first opened, the cemetery keeper and his family would have lived there. Inside, she found modern office furniture in pale wood, magnolia walls, blue carpet tiles and notices in the dark green-and-grey motif used throughout the crematorium. Siv thought this a little tasteless. Even death has to be branded now.
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 2