A Killing Resurrected

by Frank Smith

  ‘I was about to,’ she replied to his question. ‘And thank you for asking me.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ he said, ‘but I should warn you, Steph will want to pick your brains for ideas about the decor. Promise me you won’t suggest anything too expensive.’ He frowned as he glanced into the hall behind her. ‘Where is Steph, anyway?’

  ‘She’s gone to check up on things in the kitchen. She said she would only be a few minutes, and I was to remind you to mingle with your guests.’

  Kevin’s eyes flicked towards heaven as he shook his head. ‘Probably out there counting the spoons to make sure no one’s run off with them,’ he muttered, then grinned to show he didn’t really mean it. ‘Come on in and let me get you a drink. What will you have?’

  ‘Whatever it is, I’m afraid it will have to be non-alcoholic,’ Claire told him. ‘Sorry, Kevin, but I have to leave in an hour to see a client. He’s leaving for South Africa first thing in the morning, and wants to have everything sorted out before he goes. I really am sorry I can’t stay longer, but perhaps you could give me a quick private tour of the house before I go. From what I’ve seen so far, I think it’s lovely. And the view from up here is magnificent.’

  He grimaced. ‘God knows it should be for the price.’ The words were spoken lightly, but Claire thought she detected a hint of bitterness in his voice, and wondered once again how he and Stephanie had managed to make the leap from Oak Street in the Old Town to Falcon Ridge.

  It was as if he sensed her thoughts. ‘Of course, we couldn’t possibly have done it without the help of Steph’s father,’ he said. ‘He made it possible.’

  Claire said, ‘I’m sure you’ll both enjoy it, but I thought you both liked where you were living before. It had a lot of character, and I remember you telling me about the plans you had to renovate, so I was surprised when David said you were moving up here.’

  ‘Oh, we did like it,’ Kevin agreed. ‘At least, I liked it, and to tell you the truth I was looking forward to the challenge of whipping it into shape, but Steph wasn’t quite as keen. She thought it was all right while we were getting on our feet, but she was always on the lookout for something more . . . upmarket, if you know what I mean. So, when this place came up for sale, and Ed said he was prepared to help us buy it, Steph jumped at the chance.’

  Kevin went on to explain that there had always been a strong bond between Steph and her father. ‘You probably know that her mother died when she was quite young,’ he went on, ‘and Ed brought her up on his own. He lives just down the road, so when this house came up for sale, and Ed broached the idea of us moving up here close to him, it was like a gift from the gods as far as Steph was concerned.’

  He made a face and lowered his voice. ‘A damned expensive gift, nevertheless,’ he confided quietly, then smiled to show once again that he wasn’t really serious. ‘Not that I really mind, of course,’ he went on. ‘It’s just that it takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all, and I’m sure we will be very happy here once we’re settled in. Anyway, that’s quite enough of that. Come with me and we’ll see about that drink.

  ‘The bar’s in the next room,’ he explained as he led the way. ‘And if my father-in-law tells you he’s been called to the bar, pretend you haven’t heard it a dozen times before, and smile. It’s his favourite pun.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t heard it before,’ Claire told him, ‘but I will smile.’

  The two of them made their way across the room, pausing every now and then to say ‘hello’ or exchange a few words before they reached the bar. It was, Kevin explained, a self-contained bar on wheels, complete with a miniature sink, refrigerator, and its own supply of water. ‘Belongs to Ed,’ he said, sotto voce, as they approached. ‘I’d intended to simply have a drinks table, but he insisted on bringing it over and setting it up last night. You have met Ed, haven’t you, Claire?’

  ‘No, not really,’ she confessed. ‘I mean I know who he is, and I saw him at your wedding, of course, but I’ve never actually met him.’

  ‘In that case, let me introduce you.’ He waited until the man behind the bar had finished serving the wife of one of the lawyers in his firm before bringing Claire forward.

  ‘Claire Hammond?’ Ed Bradshaw repeated slowly. ‘I believe I knew your father. Not well, but I met him a few times. Insurance, wasn’t it? Moved south somewhere?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Bradshaw. Southampton.’

  ‘Call me Ed. Everyone else does. Now, as you can see, I’ve been called to the bar, so what will you have?’

  Claire smiled dutifully, and asked for an orange juice.

  Ed Bradshaw was a small, energetic man who seemed to be on springs. He was never still. Fit and trim, much like his daughter, Ed played squash three times a week, jogged virtually every day, walked almost everywhere, and made sure everyone knew it.

  ‘No orange juice, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘but I do have lemonade. Brought it along in case someone was foolish enough to bring a youngster. It’s either that or soda water.’

  ‘Lemonade will do very well, thank you,’ Claire told him.

  ‘Chock full of sugar, of course,’ he couldn’t resist saying as he poured the drink, ‘but I don’t suppose one glass will hurt you.’

  ‘Hello, Claire,’ said a familiar voice behind her.

  She turned to face the speaker and said, ‘Hello, David. I saw your car outside, and I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  ‘Been hiding out in the kitchen until Steph chased me out,’ he told her. ‘Got tired of listening to a bunch of lawyers talking shop, so I went out there. At least I could understand what they were talking about.’

  ‘He’s just being boorish, as usual,’ said Stephanie, who had followed him in. ‘Give him a drink, Dad. Perhaps that will loosen him up a bit. And give me one as well.’

  David drew Claire to one side as more people drifted in to refresh their drinks. ‘I could have picked you up if you’d told me you were coming here today,’ he said. ‘You didn’t mention it the other night.’

  ‘As I recall, I didn’t have much chance,’ she said more sharply than she’d intended.

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve been meaning to call you about that,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was a bit short with you, and I’m sorry. Your policeman friend came round to see me yesterday, and I can see now how he could take a perfectly innocent remark and make something out of it that was never intended.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop referring to him as “my policeman friend”,’ Claire said irritably. ‘Why? What did he say?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much what he actually said, but he left me with the impression that he thought I wasn’t being quite straight with him, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see him back again with more questions.’

  Claire grimaced sympathetically. ‘As a matter of fact, I had a visit from Chief Inspector Paget and Superintendent Alcott yesterday afternoon. They wanted to look at Barry’s room and the shed where Barry died.’

  Although he seemed to be absorbed in what he was doing behind the bar, Ed Bradshaw pricked up his ears. ‘Alcott?’ he asked sharply. ‘Superintendent Alcott? What have you been up to, young lady?’ He smiled to soften his words. ‘Must be something serious to attract the attention of the Superintendent. If you need a solicitor . . .?’

  ‘Is there a problem, Claire?’ asked Stephanie.

  ‘Good Lord, no! It’s just . . .’ Claire stopped, not quite knowing what to say.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Claire, really,’ David said. ‘It’s just that when Jane Grant died, she left a letter saying that young Barry Grant – you remember him, don’t you, Kevin? – was one of the people involved in the robbery when Dad was killed.’

  The murmur of conversation around the bar died.

  Stephanie drew in her breath and looked at Kevin. ‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered. ‘Your father, Kevin. After all this time.’ She looked at Claire. ‘Are you saying it was Barry Grant who killed Kevin’s father?’

&nb
sp; ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying, Steph,’ Claire said. ‘It was—’

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ David broke in. ‘It seems that Barry left some notes behind when he died. He admitted to being one of the people involved in the robberies. He said he drove the van they used, but he wasn’t inside the shop when . . . when it happened.’

  Kevin was staring hard at his brother. ‘He claims he was one of the people involved?’ he echoed, his voice rising, ‘and you didn’t bother to tell me?’

  David Taylor made a calming motion with his hands. ‘I was going to tell you, Kevin, but I didn’t want to spoil your party.’ Conscious of the people listening, he lowered his voice. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later on. The police have it in hand. They’ve reopened the inves—’

  ‘I don’t want to wait till later on,’ Kevin cut in angrily. ‘I want to know now!’

  ‘Kevin . . .’ Stephanie laid a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

  ‘He was my father, too,’ David reminded him, ‘and I’m just as anxious to know who killed him as you are. But all I know at the moment is what I’ve told you. The police came round to ask me what I could tell them about Barry, which wasn’t much, and Claire tells me they went to Jane Grant’s house to look at his old room and the shed where he killed himself. That’s it. That’s all we know.’

  Everyone turned their attention to Claire.

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ she said. ‘Really.’

  Ed came out from behind the bar. ‘Looking at his room?’ he scoffed. ‘That’s a bit feeble, even for the police, isn’t it? What did they expect to find after all these years?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I’m not sure they expected to find anything,’ she told him, ‘but they’re coming back again on Monday to look for anything in the house that might tell them who Barry’s friends were back then, some of whom may have been members of the gang. Photographs, letters, things like that.’

  Bradshaw seemed suddenly to realize that others were listening, and turned to face them. ‘Sorry if we’re holding you up,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘Let’s get those glasses filled, shall we? Give me a hand, Kevin; we have a bunch of thirsty people here.’ He moved back behind the bar. ‘Now then, Roger,’ he said to the first man in line, ‘what’s it going to be?’

  EIGHT

  Sunday, July 12th

  Valerie Alcott sat staring down at her plate, fists clenched beneath the table. She wished she had gone straight home after leaving the hospital instead of agreeing to come back to the house with her father. But she’d felt sorry for him after that ugly scene in the hospital, with Celeste going on and on until a senior nurse had asked them to leave.

  ‘I think that is quite enough for today,’ she’d said firmly. ‘Mrs Alcott needs her rest and I must ask you to lower your voices and leave. Not only is it bad for Mrs Alcott, but you are disturbing the other patients.’

  Her mother, propped up on pillows, looked old, and Valerie remembered thinking that no one should look that old at fifty-two. Her face was grey and her breathing was laboured. She had tried to put on a bold face; tried to pretend she was pleased to see them, but Valerie had caught the grateful look she’d given the nurse when their eyes had met.

  But Celeste just wouldn’t shut up.

  ‘I’ve come all the way up here from Bristol,’ she said waspishly, ‘and I don’t intend to be told when I can and cannot visit my mother during visiting hours.’

  ‘Your mother needs to rest,’ her father had said, rising to his feet. ‘She—’

  ‘So, now you’re concerned, are you, Dad?’ Celeste snapped. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, she wouldn’t be in here in the first place, you and your smoking! I’m not a little girl anymore, so I won’t have you telling me what is best for my mother.’

  Valerie had taken her sister’s arm. ‘Come on, Celeste,’ she had coaxed. ‘Mum is very tired; she does need her rest, so let’s go. We can come back tomorrow, and perhaps it would be best if we came one at a time and just sat quietly with Mum.’

  ‘You’re as bad as Dad,’ Celeste accused, pulling away. ‘You keep saying you’ve stopped smoking, but I know you haven’t. I can smell it on you. And just look at what that’s done to my mother!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Celeste, drop it!’ her father hissed. ‘If you want to have a go at me, then do it outside. Now, are you coming or do I have to drag you out? Because I will if you keep this up.’

  Celeste turned on him. ‘There! See? Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made Mum cry. It’s all right, Mum,’ she said, bending over to stroke her mother’s hair, ‘we love you. Don’t cry.’

  The nurse had moved in, a sturdy nurse, expertly nudging Celeste away from the bed as she straightened their mother’s pillows. Celeste attempted to push back, but the nurse stood her ground. ‘You can leave voluntarily, or I can have Security escort you out,’ she said in a low voice. Her hand hovered inches away from the emergency call-button on the in-house communications unit.

  ‘You’ll be hearing more about this,’ Celeste snapped as she moved away. ‘I will not be treated like this when it could very well be the last time I see my mother—’

  ‘Celeste! For God’s sake!’

  Never had Valerie seen such a thunderous look on her father’s face as he came round the end of the bed to seize his daughter by the arm and literally drag her away, and for once in her adult life, Celeste looked frightened.

  Now, sitting there at the table in the house where she’d grown up, Valerie cringed at her own cowardice. She’d done nothing, absolutely nothing back there at the hospital. She’d just stood there, speechless and totally useless while her father marched Celeste out of the ward, down the hall and into the lift, and then outside. Valerie had followed them down, feeling more like a six-year-old than a grown woman.

  It had been like that since childhood. Celeste, three years older, had carried on a secret campaign of intimidation as far back as Valerie could remember, and no matter how hard she’d tried, she’d never been able to fight back successfully.

  ‘So, what are you going to do when Mum comes out?’ Celeste demanded, only slightly more subdued than she’d been at the hospital. She wrinkled her nose as she looked around the room. ‘She certainly can’t come back here. The place reeks of smoke, so where will she go?’ She looked pointedly at Valerie. ‘Your flat is too small and there are too many stairs anyway, so that’s no good, but you could get a bigger place.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ Valerie said. ‘I’m at work all day and I can barely afford the rent on the place I have now.’

  ‘You might be earning a better wage if you’d paid more attention to your education and gone to university instead of buzzing off to Europe and God knows where else when you finished school,’ Celeste snapped. ‘Now what are you? Typist in some little office with no prospects. If I were you, I’d—’

  ‘But you’re not me!’ Valerie flared, ‘and I thank God for that. It’s all very well for you to talk; yes, you went to university, but your main objective was to snag a rich husband, and you succeeded, so don’t preach to me about the difference university makes. At least I work for a living. You don’t! And I’m sick and tired of—’

  ‘Stop it!’

  Celeste gasped and Valerie jumped back so hard her chair almost went over backwards as her father’s fist hit the table with such force that the teacups slopped tea into the saucers and on to the tablecloth. ‘Just shut it, both of you! Can’t you see she’s baiting you, Val?’ He turned to Celeste. ‘And if you are trying to make me feel bad about what’s happened to your mother, you are wasting your breath, because nothing you say or do can make me feel any worse than I do now. I know it’s my fault; I know I’m responsible for your mother’s condition, and I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me that. So either shut up or leave, and I don’t much care which one you choose.’

  Grim-faced, Celeste threw her napkin down and pushed her chair back. ‘In that case,
I’ll leave and let you two get on with it,’ she said thinly. She stood up and moved to the door, then paused. ‘With me out of the way, you can both light up and discuss what to do about Mother, when she comes out of hospital – if she ever does.’

  Claire Hammond shivered and stirred in her sleep. Cramped and cold, she slowly came awake and reached for the coverlet to cover her shoulders. But there was no coverlet, and this was not her bed.

  She opened her eyes and looked around. Slowly, the outlines of the room took shape. The conservatory, of course! After spending the whole day and most of the evening cleaning and sorting things out, she’d flopped into one of the overstuffed chairs for a brief rest before going home. That had been around ten o’clock. So what time was it now? Claire peered at her watch, but the light was too faint for her to see the time.

  She wrinkled her nose. Whatever was that smell?

  Claire sat up straight, suddenly alert and wide awake. Petrol? She was sure it was petrol she could smell, but where could it be coming from? The windows weren’t open, and even if they were, the conservatory was at the back of the house, and there would be no reason for . . .

  A sound! She caught her breath; stopped breathing, straining to hear. There it was again! Someone was in the house; someone with petrol . . .

  Claire shot out of the chair to move swiftly across the room. Silently, she eased the door open, put her eyes to the crack . . . then froze! Not six feet away in the hall, a dark figure, intent upon the job in hand, was backing slowly down the hall. Guided by the light of a pencil torch gripped between the teeth, he was sloshing petrol on the floor. The smell was overpowering. Claire’s eyes watered and her throat convulsed as she choked back a terrible urge to cough.