Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

  The door opened. This must be the Fairleighs’ housekeeper, he guessed.

  The girl was in her early twenties, plump, dark and cheerful with cheeks as rosy as a ripe Cox and eyes that sparkled with the buoyancy of youth. She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. Thanet had come across this new breed of housekeeper before. Quick to spot the dearth of high-quality well-trained servants, girls like this went away to expensive colleges to be thoroughly grounded in all the arts of running a house of any shape or size. Then, flourishing their Cordon Bleu certificates, they sailed into the lucrative waters of high-class domestic employment and commanded substantial salaries, along with fringe benefits such as rent-free accommodation, free food and often a car for their own use too. As in this case it seemed a harmonious arrangement, the employers feeling they got value for money, the housekeeper effortlessly blending in with a background often so like her own.

  ‘Miss Young?’ he said. He introduced himself and Lineham.

  She looked slightly surprised that he knew her name. ‘Yes,’ she said. She smiled. ‘But everyone calls me Sam.’

  ‘We’d like a word with Mr Fairleigh.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s gone to church, but he should be back any minute now. Will you wait?’ Her accent confirmed her middle-class origins.

  ‘Thank you.’ They followed her into the drawing room where this morning, with the curtains drawn back, the room was filled with light, the greens and turquoises blending with the backdrop of sky, lawns and trees visible through the tall windows.

  ‘Would you like some coffee while you’re waiting?’

  Thanet smiled to soften his refusal. ‘But if we could just have a word,’ he added quickly as she turned to go.

  ‘Sure.’ She perched on the arm of a chair. ‘Any way I can help. This whole business, it’s awful.’ She shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe it’s happened. I mean, it seems unreal.’

  But she was showing no sign of grief, Thanet noted. Was there anyone who genuinely mourned Isobel Fairleigh’s passing? he wondered.

  ‘Look, sit down, won’t you?’ She waved a hospitable hand.

  Thanet gave Lineham an almost imperceptible nod. You do this one.

  ‘We understand that you were around most of yesterday,’ said the sergeant, choosing the most businesslike armchair he could find, a Victorian piece with scrolled wooden arms and heavily carved legs.

  Thanet chose to wander in a leisurely manner around the room.

  Sam rolled her eyes. ‘Around is the word. It was, to put it mildly, somewhat hectic.’

  ‘You were helping with the fête?’

  ‘Amongst other things, yes.’

  ‘Would you mind running quickly through your day for us?’

  She put up her hand, scrunched up a handful of dark curls and tugged at them, as if to activate her memories of the previous day, then launched into a summary of her activities. In between her normal duties she had helped in the morning with setting up the arrangements for the teas and generally lending a hand wherever she was needed. In the afternoon she had run one of the sideshows.

  On a table near the window were several photographs in ornate silver frames. Thanet bent to study them, his attention focusing on one of Grace Fairleigh and the baby. It was taken in profile, Grace looking up at the child she was holding in raised arms in front of her, mother and baby smiling at each other with such love and tenderness that Thanet saw at once what Caroline had meant. They seemed to be encircled in an almost visible nimbus of radiant happiness. From this angle the child looked perfectly normal. Thanet wondered that the photograph was still on display, here in the drawing room where Grace Fairleigh would see it every day of her life. He would have thought it would be too painful a reminder of what she had lost.

  Lineham was still questioning Sam. ‘Did you come into the house at all in the afternoon?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or see anyone else come in?’

  Another shake. ‘I was on the lawn at the side of the house. I couldn’t see either the front or the back door from there.’

  Lineham glanced at Thanet. Anything else?

  ‘The post, yesterday, Miss Young …’

  ‘Sam, please.’

  ‘All right, Sam. Do you happen to remember how many letters there were?’

  She thought for a moment, screwing up her eyes. ‘There were some letters, yes, but I couldn’t tell you how many. I was in rather a hurry, so I just picked them up, glanced through them to see if there were any for me, and put them on the table in the hall, as usual.’

  ‘Do you remember who they were for?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I never sort them out. There’s usually quite a lot of mail, most of it for Hugo – Mr Fairleigh – so he always does that, if he’s here. Or Grace, if he’s not. I know there were some for him, though, because I saw him go off to the study with them later.’

  ‘We know that Mrs Fairleigh senior received at least one letter yesterday. Did you happen to notice how many letters were left on the table in the hall after Mr Fairleigh had taken his?’

  Sam shook her head again. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘And you say you didn’t notice who any of them were for, when you were looking to see if there were any for you?’

  ‘No. Why should I? The Fairleighs’ mail is their own affair, not mine.’ The colour in her cheeks intensified. ‘I’m not interested in snooping.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not,’ said Thanet, smiling and meaning what he said. ‘You have better things to do. All the same, if you do happen to remember, perhaps you could give us a ring.’

  The front door opened and closed, and footsteps crossed the hall. Samantha jumped up and ran to open the drawing-room door, relieved no doubt at the excuse to break off the interview. ‘Hugo?’

  Fairleigh appeared. ‘Bloody reporters. They’re a pain in the neck.’ He must have walked back from church, and his fair skin was flushed, his forehead beaded with sweat. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face. ‘Ah, good morning, Inspector. Phew, it’s a scorcher today, isn’t it? Sam, if we could have some iced lemonade?’

  ‘It’s ready in the fridge.’ She lifted her eyebrows at Thanet. ‘If you’ve finished with me, Inspector?’

  Fairleigh laughed. ‘Been giving Sam the third degree have you, Thanet?’

  Thanet smiled. Despite the brush with reporters Fairleigh seemed in a good mood today. Thanet wondered how long the MP’s affability would last when he realised that the investigation was focusing on the family. ‘By all means go and get the lemonade, Sam.’

  Fairleigh crossed to the window and raised the sash higher, fanning himself with his handkerchief. He did not take his jacket off, Thanet noted. Strictly schooled in the rules of polite behaviour, no doubt he would consider it incorrect to remove the jacket of a suit in the presence of a third person, even in his own house.

  Fairleigh put his handkerchief away. ‘So,’ he said, turning. ‘Have you any news yet?’

  Thanet side-stepped the question. ‘We’d be grateful if you’d have a look at this, sir, see if any of the names rings a bell. It’s a list of everyone who was at the fête yesterday.’ It occurred to him belatedly that he should have shown the list to Caroline.

  Fairleigh took the typewritten sheets, put on some goldrimmed half-moon spectacles and half turned to catch the light from the window. He ran his fingers down the pages at considerable speed, rather as one does when looking for a particular name in a telephone directory. Thanet supposed that Fairleigh was practised at skimming quickly through documents, but all the same it seemed to him that there could be more to it than that, that the MP was specifically checking to see if a certain name was on the list. If so, whose could it be?

  He watched with interest as Fairleigh reached the end of the list, turned back to the beginning and went through it again more slowly. This time it seemed to Thanet that he paused over a name on the last page. But finally he handed the papers back, shaking his head. Was there relief
in his eyes?

  ‘Sorry. I know a lot of these people, of course, many of them are local and my constituents, but no one there has any special significance in connection with my mother. So where do we go from here?’

  ‘There are one or two further questions I’d like to put to you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Fairleigh sat down on one of the sofas. ‘Do sit down, Inspector.’

  Sam returned carrying a silver tray bearing three tall glasses and a crystal jug clinking with ice-cubes and filled with a pale, opaque liquid. Fresh lemonade, Thanet was willing to bet. No synthetic bottled stuff for Fairleigh.

  She poured a glass for her employer, handed it to him, then looked at Thanet. ‘I know you said you didn’t want coffee, Inspector, but I thought some fresh lemonade …?’ She raised her eyebrows, jug poised over a second glass.

  Thanet shook his head, catching the flicker of disappointment in Lineham’s eyes as he followed suit. He would have loved a glass himself and his mouth watered as he imagined the refreshing tingle of the cool, slightly acid liquid passing over his tongue and down his throat. But he suspected that all too soon now Fairleigh was going to cotton on to the direction Thanet’s questions were taking, and an explosion would almost certainly follow. In which case Thanet wanted to avoid anything resembling the atmosphere of a social occasion.

  Sam gave a little shrug, refilled the glass which Fairleigh had drunk straight off, and left.

  Fairleigh took another long swallow. ‘Unwise decision, Inspector. This is delicious. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He put the glass down, lit one of his low-tar cigarettes and inhaled greedily. ‘Well, fire away.’ He flicked a quick glance at Lineham, who was opening his notebook and taking out a pen.

  ‘Can you think of anyone your mother knew whose name begins with the letter B?’

  Fairleigh looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Christian name or surname?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Fairleigh’s tone was cool, his affability rapidly fading.

  ‘Because we’ve been looking through your mother’s diary and …’

  ‘You’ve been what?’

  ‘Looking through your mother’s diary, sir.’ Thanet tried to keep his tone as matter-of-fact as possible.

  ‘For what purpose?’ Fairleigh’s tone was now positively glacial, his eyes like chips of blue ice.

  Here we go, thought Thanet. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lineham sitting very still. Bracing himself, no doubt.

  NINE

  The lines of Fairleigh’s face had sharpened, as if the flesh had melted away from the bones. His eyes sparked with anger and his mouth was a thin, hard line, his prominent nose more beak-like than ever.

  He looked, Thanet thought, like an eagle about to swoop upon its prey. But he himself had weathered far worse storms than the one about to break and now that it had arrived he was glad. It would clear the air.

  It was important, though, to get in first, before Fairleigh had launched into a tirade he might later regret.

  ‘Mr Fairleigh,’ he said calmly, ‘I think it would be sensible, at this point, to face certain facts.’

  ‘What facts?’ The words were as staccato as machine-gun bullets. But the long years in politics had taught the MP the value of self-control and he was containing his anger, just, until he knew whether it would be prudent to unleash it.

  Thanet was crisp, formal. ‘One: that this is a murder investigation. Two: that in such an investigation nothing is sacrosanct. Three: that every avenue must be explored, no matter where it leads. Four: that innocent people are bound to be hurt by what seems to them unnecessary scrutiny. And five: that as there is as yet no evidence whatsoever of an intruder, we would be failing in our duty if we did not investigate the possibility that your mother was killed by someone she knew.’ He did not add, Six: and that someone could be one of your family. This was self-evident.

  Fairleigh stubbed out his cigarette with unnecessary force and stood up, once again betraying his tension by thrusting his hands in his pockets and jingling keys and coins. He crossed to stand looking out of the window.

  Thanet and Lineham raised their eyebrows at each other behind his back. Was it possible that Thanet had managed to defuse the situation? He tried to think himself into the MP’s position. If Fairleigh were guilty, it wouldn’t help to antagonise the police. If the MP were innocent, he would naturally be upset and angry at the prospective invasion of his privacy. Anyone would, after all. But as a public figure Fairleigh had much more to lose. It would be very much in his interest to keep on good terms with the police, try to persuade them to keep the investigation as low-key as possible. So he might, he just might damp down the fires of resentment and present a cooperative face.

  He watched the MP’s rigid back for the first sign of capitulation and yes, there it was, a slight sagging of the shoulders. Fairleigh sighed and turned.

  ‘Very well, Thanet, I take your point. The important thing is to get this matter cleared up as quickly as possible. Though how you can imagine …’ He shook his head apparently more in sorrow than in anger, and returned to his seat. ‘So. You were saying?’

  ‘That we’ve been looking through your mother’s diary and it seems that on the first day of every month she met someone with the initial B.’ Thanet fished the diary out of his pocket. ‘Look.’

  Fairleigh took the diary and riffled through it, pausing from time to time. ‘Yes, I see.’ He shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. I’ve no idea who it could be.’

  ‘But if you do think of anyone, you’ll …’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll let you know at once.’

  ‘And you have no idea where she might have been going, on those dates?’

  ‘I’m a busy man, Inspector. During the week I’m rarely here. Perhaps my wife or my aunt might be able to help you.’

  ‘I’ll ask them, of course.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘One minor point. I understand that a number of letters were delivered here yesterday.’

  Fairleigh looked surprised. ‘Yes, that’s true. But what …?’

  ‘Most of them were for you, I suppose.’

  ‘I do get an enormous amount of mail, as you can imagine. Mostly constituency business. And yes, most of yesterday’s letters were for me.’

  ‘And the others?’

  Fairleigh shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think my aunt receives many letters, so I imagine they were either for my wife or my mother. And as they both have the same surname, I wouldn’t notice unless I actually looked at the initial. I just took all the ones addressed to me and left the rest on the hall table.’

  ‘Can you remember how many there were?’

  Another shrug. ‘Three or four, I think. I really can’t remember.’

  Thanet rose. ‘Thank you, sir. I think that’s about it, for the moment.’

  ‘Inspector …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That list … Could I have another look at it?’

  ‘By all means.’ Thanet handed it over.

  Fairleigh turned to the last page – the page where, Thanet remembered, the MP had paused during his second perusal and where all those who had helped at the fête were listed.

  Fairleigh put his finger on a name. ‘I did just wonder … but I didn’t mention it, because the man’s still in prison.’

  Thanet sat down again. ‘What?’ Was the MP casting around for something, anything, to direct Thanet’s attention away from the family?

  ‘I didn’t say anything before because I felt … But I do realise, now, that one simply can’t afford to allow sympathy to get in the way, not when it’s a matter as serious as this, and my own mother was … She’s a widow, you see.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, this Mrs Tanner, who was helping with the teas … You remember you asked me yesterday if there was anyone who might have a grudge against my mother?’

  Th
anet nodded.

  ‘Wayne Tanner, her son … He’s her only child and it was my mother’s evidence that helped put him behind bars. I know Mrs Tanner is pretty bitter about it still.’

  ‘I’m surprised, in that case, that she was helping here yesterday.’

  ‘Her father’s dying of cancer. She’s been involved in working for the hospice appeal for some time. I know she helps in the hospice shop in Sturrenden, for example. That’s probably why she agreed to lend a hand.’

  ‘What happened with her son?’

  Apparently, one night in early autumn last year there had been a serious fire at the village school. Old Mrs Fairleigh, driving home from one of her bridge evenings, had seen two youths climbing over the wall at the side of the school playground. She knew most of the local lads by sight and had recognised them. Wayne Tanner, aged eighteen, was one. As soon as she heard that the school was ablaze she rang the police and told them what she had seen.

  It was generally known in the village that Tanner was a trouble-maker. There had been various minor offences – stealing from the village shop, windows broken in an empty house, vandalism in gardens – none of which had been reported to the police because people felt sorry for his mother, whose husband was disabled. But the consensus of opinion was that sooner or later Wayne would find himself in serious trouble and no one was surprised when after the fire he was arrested. The evidence against him was conclusive: his clothes still stank of paraffin, and his fingerprints were all over a door which had survived the fire relatively undamaged. Although it was a first offence it was a serious one. Thaxden Primary School was large, serving several of the surrounding villages, and there had been around sixty thousand pounds’ worth of damage. Tanner had been convicted and got twelve months.

  Mrs Tanner, by now a widow, had made her bitterness against Mrs Fairleigh plain, causing an unpleasant scene outside the Court. The old lady had endured the encounter with dignity, but Hugo knew that it had upset her. She told him later, however, that she had no regrets about identifying Wayne. In her view, if action had been taken against him earlier over some of his minor misdemeanours, he might have been given a sufficient shock to prevent him from graduating later to more serious crime. Mrs Tanner, in her view, had only herself to blame. She had been too soft with the boy.