A Market for Murder

by Rebecca Tope

  Della had not suggested she take the children, which seemed a bit off to Maggs. She said as much to Drew. ‘I wouldn’t have let them go to her, anyway,’ he said vaguely. ‘I want them here with me. And we were a bit churlish with her yesterday, when she did offer to have them. She might feel disgruntled.’

  ‘But you might have to rush off – to the hospital, I mean.’

  ‘So? You can stay with them, can’t you?’ Neither of them was really thinking about what they were saying. Maggs would normally have told him to get a grip, but under these circumstances, she hadn’t the heart.

  The hospital had sent him home late the previous evening, and told him they’d be doing tests next morning. ‘Leave it until later in the day,’ they told him. ‘Bring the children if you want to.’

  ‘They said I could take the kids,’ he remembered. ‘So nobody needs to mind them. I’m going after lunch.’

  ‘Will you take them both?’

  He let his unfocused gaze rest on his children, first one, then the other. ‘I don’t know. What will it do to them? I don’t know. There’s a policeman stationed outside her room, you know. That would seem strange to the kids.’

  ‘They’re worried somebody will have another go?’ The thought was chilling.

  ‘Well, they have to cover themselves,’ he said, as vaguely as before.

  Maggs hated his empty eyes, his drifting gaze. ‘Drew, you do look awful. Shouldn’t you go and lie down or something? You’ve probably got traumatic stress, or whatever it’s called. Pretend you’re one of your own patients, from when you were a nurse.’

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work. You’d think I could deal with it, wouldn’t you? I’ve seen the worst things that can happen – but then I think, there can’t be anything worse than this. If she’d died, it wouldn’t be as bad.’

  Stephanie looked up at him, her face pinched and pale. ‘Is Mummy dead?’ she asked.

  Drew groaned. ‘No, sweetheart. But she’s very poorly, and she can’t wake up. She’s asleep all the time.’

  Stephanie pushed a thumb into her mouth and frowned. ‘Same as being dead,’ she decided, indistinctly. Maggs was tempted to agree with her. Dead without the funeral, she thought wryly.

  ‘They might have the results of some of the tests,’ Maggs suggested. ‘It might be good news.’

  ‘I keep seeing it, over and over again. The coffin on my shoulder, the shot, Steph’s screams. All night, it just kept on replaying, the whole thing. I’ve never had that happen before. I couldn’t stop it. I can’t think about anything else. Poor Karen!’ He ran his fingers through his hair in a parody of distractedness.

  Maggs went to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Phone them first, see how she is, before you decide about taking the kids,’ she advised.

  He shuddered. ‘I’m scared of what they might say,’ he mumbled. ‘Will you do it?’

  So she did, and was told they would only disclose information to the next of kin. Drew listened shakily for less than a minute, and replaced the receiver. ‘Nothing conclusive, they said,’ he reported. ‘No significant change. Why do they use such horrible language?’

  Maggs could feel a headache beginning. She who never had headaches was succumbing now. It throbbed. She wanted to go away and lie down. She wanted Den, because he was tall and strong and familiar. But she also wanted to wrap her arms round Drew and cradle him better, to let him cry if he wanted to, and be weak and small and miserable. The two men in her life had their similarities – a shared outlook on the world, a core of decency – but in personality they were very different. Drew had chosen to work with death because the dead were no trouble. They were the safest kind of people you could find, and their grieving families were usually straightforward, too. The dying might have been messy or shocking or agonising, but by the time they reached Drew they were past all that. And Drew needed things to be safe, Maggs had realised early on. He coped badly with the contradictions and misbehaviours of ordinary life. He needed approval and affection and gratitude.

  Den wasn’t like that at all. He was dogged in the face of hostility, seldom taking it personally as Drew would. He let people’s troubles wash over him, and stood there like a pillar of stone until the turmoil subsided. He knew that life was rarely tidy, that good intentions were not enough, that anybody was capable of dreadful deeds. He knew it, and accepted it as the way things were. He had joined the police out of a wish to keep things as straight as possible. To prevent crime where he could, to identify criminals and apprehend them. He was kind and patient and sometimes slow. His brain was not given to flashes of insight or intuition, as Maggs believed hers to be. He thought carefully before coming to any conclusion. Maggs sometimes wondered whether he would ever have managed to leave the police if Drew hadn’t made him see how much he wanted to.

  Except that now she wasn’t so sure that he had really wanted to at all. He’d been in a period of gloom, shared by much of the rural population, lonely, pessimistic and stagnant. Something had had to change, and with unprecedented decisiveness, he’d given in his notice.

  And in amongst all the pain and panic of the previous day, Maggs had permitted a question to enter her head: was Den now wishing he’d never left?

  ‘I love Drew, you know,’ Maggs said. There was something exhilarating in uttering the words, knowing Den would want her to be frank, whatever the effect on him.

  ‘I know you do,’ he said. ‘I do too.’

  ‘We’re all quite special, aren’t we? The four of us. We’ve got a bond.’

  ‘Definitely.’ They were snuggled together on the shabby sofa they’d bought in an auction sale. Den had told her some of his conversation with Mary Thomas, and she was obsessing about Drew and Karen.

  ‘I don’t think I should have left them,’ she worried. ‘He’s not really in any state to be in charge of those kids.’

  ‘They’ll be OK,’ he assured her. ‘And he can call Della if there’s a problem.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much sign of Della. She’s probably one of those people who hates to be around when there’s trouble. She scooted off fast enough yesterday, flapping about the effect on her boys.’

  ‘They did seem quite upset, I noticed.’

  ‘They were more worried about Stephanie than Karen, I think. Steph was making such a noise.’

  ‘Poor little thing. It’s going to take a lot of committed TLC to get her back on track.’

  ‘You sound like a social worker,’ she accused. ‘Which reminds me—’ she hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering … you know how you’ve got into this murder investigation, talking to Mary Thomas and people?’

  ‘Ye-e-es.’

  ‘Well, I was wondering whether you’re sorry you ever left the police. I mean, you seem to be wishing you were still doing it – still a detective, trying to solve the crime.’

  ‘Maggs,’ he took her chin gently in his long fingers, ‘police work isn’t all murder investigations. It’s sitting all day staring at a computer screen, or slogging round hundreds of houses asking the same questions over and over. Or letting a known criminal go because you know you’ll never find enough hard evidence against him. Loads and loads of grotty stuff like that, which grinds you down, wears you out – and still nobody likes you at the end of it.’

  ‘But you do like it when there’s a murder, don’t you?’ she grinned.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I like it when there’s a murder. I want the killer caught, because they’ve committed the ultimate wicked deed. Oddly enough, they often seem to want to be caught, in a way. The guilt’s too much to carry for some of them.’

  ‘Maybe they get flashbacks, like Drew. Do you think they do?’

  ‘Is Drew getting flashbacks?’

  ‘Something like that. Seeing Karen falling over, hearing the shot, again and again.’

  ‘Poor chap. Well, yes, I expect murderers do get them, as well. The decent ones, anyway. The ones who only
do it once.’

  ‘How about twice?’

  ‘Well,’ he cuddled her up closer, ‘I expect they find it easier the second time. Much less traumatic.’

  ‘Are we thinking the same person shot Peter Grafton and Karen?’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind.’

  ‘What does Danny think about you meddling in his investigation?’

  ‘He’s not particularly happy about it, but I’ve made a few promises, which helped. Obvious things like telling him everything I think is relevant, and not putting myself in danger.’

  ‘So you told him about Mary T’s twin, did you?’

  ‘I did. I’ll tell you more about that in a minute.’

  ‘Ooh! Is it exciting?’

  ‘Mildly. But let me tell you everything in the right order. Starting with this afternoon.’

  ‘As you like,’ she dimpled compliantly. ‘And what did you do this afternoon?’

  ‘This afternoon I went to talk to Mrs Geraldine Beech,’ he disclosed. ‘And after that I went to have a word with Hilary Henderson, the honey lady.’

  Maggs sighed contentedly. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she said.

  Geraldine Beech had been difficult. ‘You’re not with the police, are you?’ she’d challenged, on the doorstep. ‘What right do you have to come and cross-examine me, when you’re just an ordinary member of the public?’ Her scowl would have made King Kong quail.

  ‘I’m not planning to cross-examine you. I’ve just come for a chat, as someone very much concerned about what’s been happening. The investigating officer knows I’m here, if that makes you feel better. But in any case, I’m not contravening any laws. People are allowed to talk to each other, you know.’ He’d deliberately kept his tone mild, as if it didn’t much matter whether she talked to him or not.

  She didn’t respond verbally, but the frown relented slightly.

  ‘Karen Slocombe is a friend,’ he pressed on. ‘I’m extremely upset at what happened to her yesterday. This is supposed to be a close supportive community. Doesn’t that mean we ought to talk to each other?’

  ‘She was my friend too,’ the woman said. ‘I mean is.’ She opened the door wider to let him through.

  The house was spare, with stone floors and neutral cream-painted walls. Pine furniture predominated in the room she led him to. It seemed to be part dining room, part study, with a big table and a desk strewn with papers. There was a large rug covering part of the stone-tiled floor. The temperature was the same as outdoors, with a window thrown wide open and obviously no heating turned on.

  ‘So?’ she challenged him, as they sat at right angles to each other at one corner of the table. ‘What shall we talk about?’

  ‘I’ve just come from Mary Thomas,’ he said. ‘She told me a lot of the background – how you and she have been friends for decades, and are both very committed to the Food Chain group, and the whole thing about local food being so important.’

  ‘Right,’ she nodded, with little sign of interest.

  ‘And how it began to go wrong. People compromising, breaking rules, backsliding.’ He was deliberately employing more emotive language than Mary had, trying to get a reaction.

  ‘Human nature,’ she said. ‘There weren’t any real problems.’

  ‘But you haven’t been making the headway you hoped for, have you? The farmers’ markets are still just a sideline. They make good material for Radio 4 programmes, and that’s about it. They’re not having any real impact on anybody’s shopping habits.’

  ‘It isn’t just the markets. It’s the boxes and the educational stuff, and the networking. We’ve come an enormously long way, if you think back just five or six years. Every town has a farmers’ market now. Everybody knows, even if they don’t translate it into action, that the supermarkets are a disgrace. They know their town centres have become mausoleums, zombified by the out of town shopping centres …’ She stopped, and smiled wryly. ‘Well done, lad. You pressed the button there, didn’t you.’

  Den laughed. ‘Bingo!’ he said gently. ‘It wasn’t very difficult.’

  ‘But what’s it got to do with Karen and Peter Grafton? That’s the next question, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s something about Grafton selling his apple juice to a supermarket group – is that right?’

  She clenched her jaw for a fleeting moment, and her hands tightened where they lay on the table. ‘How did you know about that?’

  ‘His wife said something to Drew and Maggs. Is that why he was shot?’

  She gave a weak smile. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said flatly. ‘I don’t know who killed him, or how, or why. I was as horrified as everybody else. If you think about it, it was extremely bad news for me, and for everything I feel passionate about. The markets are tainted by it, the whole community losing confidence in its way of life, suspicion and mistrust growing up like weeds. It’s a horrible, awful thing. And I do not know who did it.’ She fixed glittering eyes on his, and he believed her.

  It was three o’clock when he drove up the track to the Hendersons’ farm. He had given them no advance warning, and was not sure what to expect in terms of their reaction. But he had visited many a farm in his time, and knew that the workers were likely to be in for some tea within the next hour or so. There was a milking herd, and most people started afternoon milking at around four, though he’d known some who left it till six or later. The farmer’s wife, the matriarch, the provider of tea, was a dying breed, rather like vicars’ wives, but Hilary had struck him as a good old-fashioned example of the stereotype. She worked her socks off, both on and off the farm, another active member of Geraldine’s Food Chain. But she was almost certain to be around at this time of day.

  And she was. As he pulled into the farmyard, he glimpsed her going into a barn, wearing a red-checked man’s shirt and tight jeans in a glaring imitation of Mary Thomas. Did they agree each morning on what to wear, or was it some sort of female telepathy? He didn’t know Mrs Henderson well; couldn’t even remember speaking to her, but he knew her by sight. He waited for her to notice his arrival, knowing she must have heard the car and was deliberately ignoring it until she’d done whatever she wanted to in the barn.

  He sat patiently until she came back, two minutes later. Then he unfolded his considerable length from the driver’s seat and stood waiting for her.

  ‘You’re the ex-policeman,’ she told him, rubbing something yellow off her hands. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Den Cooper,’ he said, proffering his hand.

  She looked down at hers and grinned. ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘This is fairly poisonous stuff. Some patent herbal concoction to prevent fly strike in sheep. You have to mix it up yourself. I don’t suppose it’ll work.’

  ‘Are you organic here?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘No, no. We’ve no patience with all that. But I’ll try anything once. I remember my grandad used to say linseed oil was about the best thing for fly strike. That’s one ingredient of this potion. Come on in, and I’ll give myself a wash.’

  He followed her into a huge farm kitchen that was as different as possible from Geraldine’s stark room. There were four or five ancient hairy armchairs, some with sagging seats, prolapsing onto the floor beneath. Crocheted blankets were thrown over them, all colourless with mud and hair. Three shaggy farm dogs lay on makeshift beds around the room. The small window was closed and the Aga was obviously going full blast, even in mid May. The only similarity with Geraldine’s place was the big table. A colossal old table dominated the room. Mountains of papers had accumulated at one end, leaving about two thirds available for eating. It was covered with a flower-patterned oilcloth. Along one worktop were massed about a hundred empty glass jars. Den remembered that Hilary sold honey at the farmers’ markets. ‘Taking your honey off soon?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m hoping for some in a week or two,’ she nodded. ‘They’ve had a mild winter, so I think there’ll be some. It’s always extra good this time of year, provi
ded they haven’t found any oilseed rape, of course. I hate it when they bring that back. Revolting stuff. It should be banned.’

  ‘They’re testing some GM versions, I gather?’ he said. ‘Up in Scotland, I think. Protesters have been tearing it out.’

  ‘So I hear,’ she said noncommittally, before adding, ‘Bloody fools.’

  ‘Who? The protesters or the people who grow it?’

  ‘The idiots who invented it in the first place. Monsanto and their friends. People think they’ve stopped, because the media haven’t been following up the story – as usual. But they’re at it as much as ever. Trying to destroy us all for the sake of a bit of money. It makes me so sick.’

  Den pondered the way these women were all so easily prompted to reveal their ardent feelings about food. It was as if they thought of nothing else, as if they were overflowing with zeal and commitment, and could never resist talking about it. Where, he wondered, had it all begun?

  ‘You obviously feel as strongly as the others do about it,’ he remarked.

  ‘Others?’ She was pouring boiling water into a big brown teapot, without checking whether he’d like a drink.

  ‘Geraldine Beech and Mary Thomas, to name two,’ he said.

  She turned towards him, her expression hard to read. ‘They’re not just any two, though. They’re the two. With me, they’re the core of the whole thing. We started it all. We’ve known each other forever, you see.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Mary went away for a while, in her twenties. And Geraldine went to university, clever thing. But we’ve been back here together for thirty years or so now. Funny how time works.’ She gazed dreamily out of the grimy window. ‘It’s not really a continuum, you know. It’s a package. That’s how it feels. Everything that’s happened is still right here.’ She smacked herself on the chest. ‘It all still matters just as much as it ever did, and it’s all remembered. At least, between us we remember everything.’

  ‘And you’ve never fallen out? Three can be a very awkward number.’