High Island Blues

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Russell was a special constable. He had friends who were policemen. He knew what was going on. If anyone had tried hard enough there’d have been forensic evidence to link that car to the accident. But Wilf Brownscombe had money and influence and he knew too much about some very senior police officers. You don’t only get corruption in the city, Mr Palmer-Jones. No one tried very hard.’

  And it had happened, George thought. Just as Connie had described. Mick admitted it. On High Island in the middle of a storm he told the others how he had crashed his father’s car when he was drunk. He couldn’t admit to it all. That was too terrible a secret even for the truth game. But Laurie had realized there was more to be told. She’d seen him as damaged goods and that she could do what she liked with him.

  ‘We tried to get justice,’ Connie went on. ‘We wrote to the papers and the chief constable. The letters weren’t printed. Russell was sacked from his job as a special because they said he was too emotionally involved. Then Michael suddenly flew off to America. His dad hadn’t liked the idea before. He’d been dead set against it. But suddenly the trip had his blessing and Michael flew away to enjoy the holiday of a lifetime.’

  No, George thought, remembering what Oliver had said about the trip, Michael didn’t enjoy it. He hardly knew where he was. It was only when he came to High Island and met Laurie that he considered any future for himself. And then he grasped the chance. He was desperate. He hated his father for saving him from prosecution. He should have been grateful but he hated him. He couldn’t go home.

  ‘Everyone forgot about it,’ Connie said. ‘Even some of our friends forgot that we’d ever had a daughter and when people asked us we’d say: “No. No children.” You don’t want to have to explain.’

  ‘But of course you didn’t forget.’

  ‘We wanted justice,’ she cried. ‘That was all that kept us going. We’d lost our only daughter.’

  As Sally was the Adamsons’ only daughter and Oliver would have done anything for her.

  She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. ‘We knew Michael would have told Mr Butterworth what he’d done,’ she said. ‘They were that close. He would have had to tell someone and there was no one else he could confide in. If Butterworth had come out into the open, made a public statement that would have been enough. We could have left it alone.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t?’

  ‘We saw him several times but we couldn’t persuade him. I suppose it was a sort of loyalty.’

  ‘Why did you leave it so long before trying to find Michael?’

  She looked at him as if he were a fool.

  ‘Because we couldn’t afford it. Until Russell was made redundant.’

  ‘You knew he was in Houston?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Connie said bitterly. ‘We found out that much. We knew he’d set up in business for himself and was doing very nicely thank you.’

  ‘So you booked on this trip.’

  ‘We’d been planning it for years.’

  ‘There were no friends out here working for British Gas, were there? You thought you would hire a car and go to Houston to find Michael. But there was no need. Michael came to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He came to us.’

  ‘Did you mean to kill him?’

  ‘No! We wanted to talk to him. To show him how much he’d hurt us.’

  ‘But you brought the chisel with you.’

  ‘To remind him. Of what had been. Of the waste.’

  ‘Why then was he killed?’

  She didn’t answer and he changed tack, said conversationally: ‘You shouldn’t have made up that story about overhearing Esme Lovegrove. I was in the lounge the lunchtime of the day she died. She saw you burying the chisel and you had to kill her. You made up the story to save yourself.’

  She looked at him with growing horror.

  ‘Not me,’ she said, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. ‘Is that why you think I’m here?’ She looked at the knife, threw it away from her onto the floor. That was to make you listen. I had to make you understand why he did it. Why do you think I asked you to stay with him all day? So that it couldn’t happen again!’

  ‘Where is he now?’ George asked.

  ‘Quite safe. With Rob and Mr Adamson. Everyone’s making a fuss of them for winning the race. I wanted him to have that.’

  ‘Russell killed Michael and Esme Lovegrove?’

  She paused, then nodded. ‘Michael Brownscombe didn’t recognize us at first. We’d followed him down that narrow trail. It was raining. No one else was about. We thought we’d lose him and Russell shouted after him. We’d been talking to him earlier about bird watching in Devon and he didn’t have a clue who we were. You’d think he’d remember, even after twenty years. So Russell shouted. He turned round and then he did know us. Perhaps he had all along and he’d just been pretending. But he wouldn’t stop and talk. He turned his back on us and carried on along the trail. Russell lost his temper then. He picked up one of those metal poles and ran after him. He hit him. He’s never been a violent man and I wasn’t expecting it. I couldn’t stop him. Then he rolled him off the track and stuck the chisel in his back. It was to remind him of Helen, Russell said. As if Michael would know. He must have been unconscious. Russell can’t have known what he was doing. After all those years of brooding … that’s what I came here to explain. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps that’s what Brownscombe deserved.’

  ‘And Esme? Did she deserve it?’

  ‘No. She was just a stupid woman. Russell went off on his own to bury the chisel. I thought they might search our rooms. I wanted to go with him but he wouldn’t have me involved. He found the plastic bag in the dustbin and the shovel in that shed by the car-park. Esme saw him go into the woods from her bedroom window and followed him. To chat him up. I suppose she thought it was exciting going after a married man. He lashed out at her with the shovel. He came running up to our room in tears. I’m surprised nobody saw him. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hide her body but I said no, that wouldn’t be fair. To leave her sister not knowing, wondering. We had to wait for Helen to die. She was on a life-support machine for three weeks. All the time we were hoping she might pull through. I told him to put the body where someone would find it.’

  She stopped for breath and looked directly at him. ‘I had to find you this evening to tell you. I waited until you were on your own. Russell’s not himself. He might do something silly again.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me the night he killed Esme? Why the story about her arranging to meet someone?’

  ‘Because of the bird race. He so much wanted to take part in that.’

  From the stable yard there came a noise: one voice, yelling. It was too early for the revellers to be returning to their cars and this was different from the good-natured taunts in the bar. George could not make out the words but the tone was sharp, deadly serious.

  Connie recognized it immediately.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said.

  George ran out of the flat and along the corridor past the kitchen to the back door. Connie sat for a moment, frozen, then she followed.

  Two figures stood in the stable yard. Laurie Brownscombe was spot-lit by a security lamp. She must have been on her way to her car. Russell May was closer to the out-house, in shadow. Laurie was turned towards him with a puzzled expression on her face, not scared in the least.

  ‘I’m sorry. Did you want to speak to me?’

  ‘I want to speak to you lady. Tell me. Did you know you were sheltering a murderer for twenty years?’

  He moved out of the shadows towards her. Laurie edged away from him towards her car.

  ‘Don’t turn your back on me,’ Russell shouted, petulant as a child. ‘Don’t you dare do that!’ Then, still like a playground bully: ‘I’m bigger than you. And I’ve got a gun.’

  ‘Has he?’ George demanded in a whisper to Connie.

  ‘Of course not.’

  But George thought it was
not impossible. He had seen all the news reports about how easy it was to buy firearms in the States. Russell was angry enough and convincing enough to get away with it.

  Laurie stood very still, her hands flat palmed towards him.

  ‘He was going to marry my daughter,’ Russell said. ‘Not you. Not some stuck-up American. There’d have been children. My grandchildren.’

  He moved towards her. George inched forward too. Still he was not in a position to see whether Russell May was holding a weapon.

  Suddenly there was an explosion of noise. A shout followed by a gunshot. The sound was so intense that George turned his head away. When he looked back at first the scene seemed unchanged. Laurie Brownscombe still stood, her hands ahead of her. The noise had not attracted attention from the hotel. To the people inside it was just one more firecracker.

  Then he realized that Connie was screaming and he saw Russell May lying on his back in the yard. Joe Benson, stiff-armed with a gun in his hand moved into the spotlight.

  George walked towards him.

  ‘He said he was armed.’ Benson’s voice was gentle, almost apologetic. ‘I couldn’t take the chance.’

  ‘No.’ And wasn’t it better, George thought, to end like this, than with a squalid court case and years in a Texan jail? ‘ No,’ he said again. ‘You couldn’t take the chance.’

  ‘What did he mean about his daughter? About Laurie having taken her place?’

  ‘I’ll explain it all to you later. Over a beer.’

  Benson lowered his gun and put his hand on George’s shoulder. In the distance they heard drunken singing. ‘ Rule Britannia’ and ‘Land of Hope and Glory.’ Rob and Oliver were celebrating.

  Copyright

  First published in 1996 by Macmillan

  This edition published 2013 by Bello

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  ISBN 978-1-4472-5028-9 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-5027-2 POD

  Copyright © Ann Cleeves, 1996

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