Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  Glaring, the DCS said slowly, ‘People can be understandably cryptic when they’re about to top themselves. Now. Listen. At the start there was the anonymous phone call naming him. He goes into a nervous breakdown after being questioned. There was an eye-witness to his meeting with the murdered woman. He committed suicide leaving a note saying he was sorry about her. There are no suspicious circumstances surrounding his death.’

  A small and telling silence. ‘He had an unbreakable alibi.’

  ‘There’s no such thing.’

  ‘There is if it’s genuine.’

  ‘Don’t. Try. My. Patience.’

  As it was already in shreds, Hunter considered he had nothing to lose. ‘We wrap it up now — Beattie’s killer’s out there. Laughing.’ The DCS leaned forward, white-knuckled. They were at the end of all the arguments; in the nature of things, he had to win. ‘Have you had the sniff of another suspect? Have you? No. Now. I’m going to say this once and once only, so make sure it penetrates your thick skull. As of now this investigation is closed. Closed. Right? Right.’

  *

  Hunter spoke to his troops, formally, in the about-to-be-dismantled incident room. ‘The DCS has ordered me to write this investigation off under Home Office rules.’ Informally — ‘You’ve all put a lot of work into this, and you may not agree with what’s happening, but — technically speaking — the Old Man is right. I don’t need to tell you anything about slashed budgets — we just can’t afford to do anything except play it by the book. Sorry, chaps. End of story.’

  Various reactions were displayed; some — not so evident — could be discerned only in a feeling of dissatisfaction, a subterranean unease. Annette and Collier had the look of children sent home from school on an unwanted half holiday. ‘Guv — do you think Willoughby did it?’

  Hunter was working on instinct, not evidence, but there was too much gap in rank for him to be entirely frank. ‘He did something. I’d lay good money on it. He’s in there somewhere, sure enough. But then... so is someone else.’

  *

  The inquest was re-opened the following week. Evidence of Reggie’s state of mind; the excess of alcohol and tranquillisers in his bloodstream; the suicide note indisputably in his own handwriting — all these pointed to an inevitable verdict: ‘He took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’

  Helen, dignified, subdued, gave evidence as she was required. Her friends spoke admiringly of her courage but Liz sensed a havoc of grief and bewilderment behind the public face. She was right. The inquest over, Helen collapsed.

  During the ten days Liz had been back at school, Paula had grown weepy. At the inquest she had been called to the stand but, having nothing to add to Helen’s statement about the finding of Reggie’s body, she was dismissed. This filled her with resentment at the attention focussed on Helen. She took to following Liz about — red-nosed, clutching a damp, balled-up handkerchief and grizzling she was just as traumatised as Helen. Liz had to stop herself yelling, For Christ's sake, this isn't a competition. A useless restraint; Paula had decided it was.

  Since Reggie’s death, Liz had had to put her own feelings aside; she was not even sure what they were any more. All the funeral arrangements fell upon her — there were offers of help, willing friends and relatives — but still, she carried the burden of doing, being, what Helen would wish; it was only too plain that Helen would not be able to attend her brother’s funeral.

  *

  A day of fragile mist and sunshine without warmth. Liz wore a fine black wool coat with a velvet collar, tiny waist and full skirt. She felt frozen and miserable.

  From Woodside she travelled with Paula and Paula’s two daughters in the first car as chief mourners. Paula wore a squashed hat of purple velvet, a black cloak and granny boots. For some reason she had dressed her two girls to look like Victorian orphans. At eleven and thirteen they had her thick build, large faces, wide mouths full of tombstone-sized teeth, dazzlingly white. Every so often they looked at each other and wordlessly, from no known cause, burst into rich, spluttering giggles. Liz could only assume these were a form of communication, in place of speech.

  She said wearily, ‘Girls, will you be quiet.’

  They made goggle eyes of alarm. Hands clapped over mouths, giggles escaped in small explosions.

  ‘Paula, for God’s sake tell them to behave.’

  Paula, dull, red-eyed, said, ‘My nerves are shattered, after what I’ve been through. I need to go away for a while. Rest. They should be with their father.’

  'Well, they’re not, are they? They’re here and they’re your responsibility. Why on earth did you let them come?’

  ‘They have to learn to express grief in a social context.’

  Muffled shrieks.

  ‘Anyway,’ Paula went on mulishly, ‘you’re the teacher, aren’t you? Aren’t you supposed to be able to keep order?’

  ‘Not at Reggie’s funeral,’ Liz hissed.

  Fortunately, the drive to the church was short and, their father immediately in evidence, the girls raced to him — pushing aside anyone unfortunate enough to be in the way — and began to jump up and down, flapping their arms and squealing daddy, daddy, daddy, like six-year-olds. He bent to speak to them and Liz noticed that almost at once they quietened. What did he use? Threats? Money? She sagged with relief to be rid of them but Paula — who should have been as heartily glad they had removed themselves — watched balefully for a while, then went to join them. The noise level began to rise.

  Liz was more aware of representing Helen — and being a credit to her — than her own grief. She thought that, in the consoling ritual of the funeral service, she would absorb and be reconciled to the sad manner of Reggie’s death. With so much to do and arrange and think about she was painfully conscious that she had not yet said goodbye to him.

  The vicar, knowing him well from his occasional, good-humoured attendances at church and church functions with Helen, spoke sincerely of him; the choir sang heart-rendingly — but no rite of passage, no matter how dignified by tradition or sustained by feeling, could survive Paula’s daughters.

  With their father ordered by Paula to place himself elsewhere, they sat with Liz and Paula in the first pew. When the service was in its opening moments, and they had grown tired of twisting round and pointing at people and giggling, they listened, ominously silent. They dealt in surface emotions: this was mourning — they tried out their roles. Loud, competitive sobs, nostril punishing sniffs, collapse. Paula ignored them. Liz knew herself at screaming point. Thankfully, they disappeared at the end of the service, then reappeared at the grave, scuffling, shouting, ‘I want to throw dirt on him, me.’ — ‘No, me first, I’m oldest — ’ They barged into Liz who said, low-voiced, ‘Listen, you little rats — ’

  Beside her, someone said quietly, ‘Liz.’

  She turned to see the young woman police constable. ‘Oh, its — ’

  ‘Annette.’ She gave a small smile, encouraging, wicked, then unceremoniously hustled the two girls to one side. ‘Right. You’ve had enough attention for one day. Everyone’s completely fed-up with you. Now. Your father. At once. He’ll keep you quiet. One, two, one two — ’

  She did not exactly frog-march them away but they went at a speed that suggested she had, leaving Liz and several other people staring after her in admiration and relief.

  Liz moved amongst the people who had gathered to say farewell to Reggie. Friends from the golf club and cricket club, neighbours, colleagues — Liz managed to speak to them while at the same time avoiding Reggie’s boss who, with the most insincere look of sympathy she had ever seen on anyone’s face, was in avid conversation with, of all people, Paula. Robert was there with his spry old father, talking to Wilfred, who semaphored encouragement to Liz.

  There were tensions; strangers who had come to whisper and stare at everyone (this being the gruesome equivalent of a Hambling society wedding); people who were known to have enthusiastically spread rumours about Regg
ie. Perversely, Paula chose to visit her wrath not on these interlopers, but upon Wilfred. ‘What’s he doing here? Fucking cheek.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be? He was very fond of Reggie, and he’s Helen’s friend.’

  ‘Friend — oh, God, there you go again. So prurient, you school marms. He wanted to get his end off, that’s what it was, and just buggered off when it suited him. And listen, I don’t know what you were doing in the front pew. Strictly speaking it’s for the closest relatives and you’re too distant to be visible — I’ve never managed to work out the relationship between your mother and Helen. Apart from the fact that they hated the sight of one another. No... instead of you, it should have been Uncle William — ’ Sweet, vague Uncle William, taking one look at Paula’s daughters, had fled to the back of the church and hidden himself amongst sympathisers.

  Liz said, ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I know you’re being damned offensive and I’ve had enough. Don’t you dare bring those two girls back to Woodside.’

  Paula looked thoughtful. ‘In a sense, you know, they’ll be a replacement for Reggie in Helen’s life.’

  Speechless, Liz stared at her.

  ‘Well, he was Helens child, really, wasn’t he? She’s always resented other people having children — it’s understandable, never having the chance to develop her own parenting skills. Well, father... you know what he was like — completely disempowered her, even deprived her of a normal sexual relationship — and everyone needs that for their mental health. No — her bonding’s been confined to Reggie, she’ll find it hard to accept his death totally — before she can accept a surrogate. She’s got a lot of bitterness to dump. Not only this long-standing sense of missing out, but the betrayal — ’

  Annette appeared, got hold of Liz and took her away while Paula was still speaking. She said, ‘I’ve had a word with their father, he’s quite sensible. He agrees it’d be a disaster to take them to Woodside — although Paula seems set on it. He’s going to drive them to Chatfield and let them destroy McDonald’s.’

  ‘Thank you. One day I’ll do violence to that woman.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t invite you back to the house, I feel it wouldn’t be quite — um — This is embarrassing.’

  ‘No, don’t be. I don’t expect anything of the sort. I came to pay my respects — and to see how you are. You look as if you’ve just about had it. You’re standing in for Miss Willoughby, I believe. I’m sorry she’s not well.’

  ‘It’s just all been too much for her. She managed wonderfully at first but... ’ Liz shook her head sadly.

  ‘Now you re managing wonderfully. But for goodness sake, when you’ve got all this over and done with — you must get some rest.’

  ‘I shall. I’m going to sneak away. I’ve arranged it. There’ll be guests at Woodside till late but I don’t need to keep playing hostess — a friend and a cousin will be staying overnight, and dear Uncle William — he won’t be useful but he’ll be a wonderfully soothing presence.’

  ‘Where are you going? Is it a secret?’

  ‘Yes, my secret. My little house. To shut the door, and be by myself.’

  Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Oh, God, it’s a marvellous idea. I’ve had enough people for the present.’

  ‘Yes, well... ’ Annette scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘In case you feel like company, or a chat — any time. That’s my private number.’

  ‘I don’t know what a nice girl like you is doing in the police force.’

  ‘I’m bossy.’ Annette’s gaze was fixed beyond Liz, on Wilfred. ‘I saw his photo at your aunt’s, didn’t I? What is it about older men?’

  ‘Dunno. But it works, doesn’t it? Would you like me to introduce you?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m going to sexually harass him. Well, what else can he expect — standing around asking for it.’

  ‘Annette, if you stay here you’ll make me laugh out loud and that’s inappropriate at a funeral. Now, go and pick up Wilfred, he’ll enjoy it.’

  It was a long day. At Woodside there was not too heavy a spirit, and a great deal of affection for Reggie. When most of the guests had gone, only relatives left, Liz found herself standing in the hall, rather stupefied and empty-feeling. Wilfred appeared, took her hand; as if by the most sympathetic instinct, they both turned. Helen had at last emerged from her room. Hesitantly, bravely, she came down the stairs.

  Liz and Wilfred held out their arms, enfolding her. If anyone came and saw, they went quietly away while the three stood in the house that Helen had filled with happiness for Reggie. They talked, inconsequential, silly, enchanting memories; they mourned... oh, if only... they wept. At last, Liz said goodbye to Reggie.

  Fifteen

  Liz sat numbly, her only emotion relief for her solitude. She did not feel she was deserting Helen, she had, for the moment, nothing left to give her. And there were good people, only too willing to care...

  She thought of going up and comforting herself with beautifully useless jobs in her workroom, but she was too tired and continued to sit, in the shelter and peace of her house, her mind doing nothing at all. Late in the day an angry wind had come up, she could hear it, battering about in the darkness.

  The doorbell rang. She thought she would not answer, but the lights were on — whoever was there would persist. She went reluctantly to the front door, switched on the porch light, looked through the spyhole, blinked. Opened the door.

  ‘Hallo, Liz,’ Hunter said.

  The night was wild about him, the wind tossing moon-silvered shrubs. Eventually, Liz said, ‘Um.’

  ‘I know. Annette told me you needed to be alone. She also said you were exhausted, she was worried about you. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I hung around very quietly for a while. I won’t even speak if you don’t want me to.’

  She would never have believed this tough, impersonal man could speak and smile so kindly. Tears threatened. ‘Oh, bugger.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, struggling with a laugh.

  ‘You’re going to make me cry. Please come in.’

  They sat in silence for a while. The fire was dying low. Hunter efficiently piled on logs, dusted his hands, looked at Liz — who was gazing in the flames. No golden aura now; her face was white and strained, her hair had lost its sheen. He wanted to fold her quietly, securely, in his arms. ‘Liz, have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Bits of things on and off all day. You know funerals. Moveable feasts. I know — let’s open a bottle of wine.’

  They went into the kitchen. To him, her house was a jewel casket, glowing with soft colours, delicate, welcoming. Even the occasional untidiness seemed to be artistically arranged. In an automatic way, she set a tray with glasses, bowls of crisps and nuts, a plate of savoury biscuits. He opened the wine. ‘Do not have anything in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’

  ‘William Morris. Have you just paid my house a compliment?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector — do I have to call you all that?’

  ‘Sheldon.’

  She received the name with interest. ‘That’s nice.’

  He carried the tray for her into the sitting room and put it on a small table; she sat on the rug in front of the fire, long legs curled under her. The wine brought a little colour to her face. She said, ‘That note was all wrong. I know. I know he wrote it, you proved that with all your tests. But the phrasing — that wasn’t Reggie. You don’t know — he waffled and wandered; he couldn’t write a note to the milkman without taking an entire page. He’d never expressed himself so clearly — so briefly.’

  He’d never been in extremis before. But Hunter couldn’t say it.

  ‘And there’s something else. It seemed, at first, that saying “I’m sorry about Beattie’’ was an admission of guilt — but I’ve thought about it and I know what he really meant. He never kn
ew Beattie, he never had anything to do with her, much less caused her harm — that's not what “I’m sorry” meant. No, he was apologising to Helen for the trouble and distress she’d been caused because — for no reason — he’d come under suspicion. I’ve talked to Helen about this — well, as far as it’s possible to talk to her at present — and she agrees with me.’

  She looked at Hunter decisively, with the air of something at last accomplished. He gauged her resilience. For all that fine-drawn look she was young and tough. It was better she know now; she could find out later, somehow, and think herself treated lightly.

  ‘Liz, I’m sorry, you’re wrong. I have to tell you this. On the day he died, I spoke to a woman who saw him with Beattie. Very probably, it was their first meeting.’

  She was very still, upright, hands tightly clasped. It could have been Helen sitting there, if Helen ever sat on rugs before the fire. ‘Go on.’

  He told her about Doris, what she had told him of the evening in the Railway Hotel.

  When he had finished, she thought for a while then said, not very convincingly, ‘It might not have been Reggie.’

  ‘I’m satisfied it was.’

  ‘All right, all right. Yes, I was wrong. So he did meet her. Had — some kind of association with her — ’

  ‘Then why did he deny it? Not only to us — that’s understandable — panic of the moment. But to his sister? If it was innocent?’

  ‘Well, good God, innocent... You’ve met Helen, how could he admit he was having a bit of something — or not, as the case may be — with someone she would find so... unacceptable. I think he was ashamed, and ashamed he’d lied to Helen. That’s why he got into that state, the mental strain was too much.’

  ‘So he took his own life.’

  ‘I don’t think he did.’

  Perhaps the strain she had been suffering all day had now proved too much; she was obviously tired out — perhaps a kind of wild despair was taking over...

  ‘What are you saying?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I don’t think he had the resolution or the competence. I’m convinced he didn’t write that note unaided. Someone was with him, someone — helped him on his way.’