‘Oh, well held!’ Tim sounded surprised that he had moved so quickly. ‘Want to be twelfth man?’
Godwin tossed the ball back to Matt and retrieved the beer. ‘You can’t be that desperate. Here. Be careful it doesn’t spray all over the place.’
They took the cans, holding their hands over the top to stop the hissing squirts as they opened them, then sat on the grass. Godwin reflected that it was now rare they were all together; Tim was away most of the year at agricultural college and Matt would be going to read business studies at Newcastle in September if his A-level grades were good enough. But he and Janet were becoming irrelevant to them anyway. The boys’ lives revolved around friends whose names Trevor could never remember, nights out in Ipswich or London, cricket, girls who appeared at Tannerslade once and were never seen again. Soon it would just be him and Janet, the Stowmarket flat replaced by a farm with a black dog.
‘How are you getting to the match?’
‘Mike’s collecting us.’ Tim picked up his bat like a sword. ‘I’m going to massacre that bastard who trapped me with a leg break last season.’
‘Don’t wave that thing around like your prick again, then,’ Matt said, and ducked as his brother shook the can and aimed the spray at him.
‘Where’re you going afterwards?’ Trevor asked.
‘Probably to the Shoulder of Mutton.’
‘Are you coming home after that?’
‘We’ll see what turns up. Maybe.’
What had once been conversations were now question and answer sessions. With the shallow confidence of youth, the boys no longer needed a father to tell them things.
‘I saw that MGF again yesterday.’ Tim, as usual was talking only to Matt. ‘It’s got to belong to someone who lives round here.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Couldn’t see him properly. Lucky bastard.’ He turned to his father. ‘Twenty-first birthday present?’
‘We’ll see. They’re expensive.’
‘Tell you what. I’ll save a couple of grand towards it. Any chance then? Come on, you can afford it.’
‘You had the Cavalier for your eighteenth.’
‘Cavaliers are for sales reps, Dad. And the heating system’s buggered … Didn’t you get an Austin Healey for your twenty-first?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t get anything for my eighteenth. That didn’t count when I was your age. You want two bites of the cherry.’
Tim shrugged. ‘So I like cherries. That MGF is awesome.’
And he did his familiar trick of turning away, irritated at not being instantly promised — if not actually given — something he wanted. Too affectionate towards the first-born of another generation, his grandfather had planted those seeds. Tim had become the arrogant Godwin male, privileged in land and family money, but envious for more, the dynast hungry for his inheritance. Conceited before mirrors, he had never been humbled and rarely defied.
Brighter than his brother and less self-assured, Matt was the more gratifying son, accepting the laws of primogeniture without rancour; he would achieve something for himself, while Tim would only inherit what others had won.
‘I’m going to have a shower.’ Tim stood up, leaving the empty beer can lying on the grass.
‘Lunch is nearly ready.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Mum’s doing it for all of us.’ Trevor injected a rare note of reproval, silenced in the years immediately after the murders, and now difficult to bring back.
‘No problem, Dad. I’ll eat.’ And he was gone, jumping to fingertip a high branch as he passed beneath it, bending to pick up a windfall apple and throw it at a grey squirrel scampering away, confident and casually aggressive. For a few moments they remained silent, as though relieved to be free of his presence.
‘Black dog turned up again just now,’ Trevor said quietly.
‘Shit.’ Matt’s sympathy was immediate. ‘How bad?’
‘Not too bad. But it’s been a long time and I wasn’t ready.’ He was conscious of deliberately not mentioning the incident while Tim had been there. Tim’s reaction to anything about the murders had always been anger, fuelled by resentment at being denied vengeance; accustomed to denial, Matt carried his pain softly.
‘It’s the anniversary soon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that’s it … What are you and Mum doing this year?’
‘We’ll be here again. It never really helped going away because it was all still waiting when we came back.’
‘I’ll be around as well … We’ll do something.’
But Tim would not be at Tannerslade on the eleventh. On the first anniversary in 1991 he had abruptly raged through the house, smashing one of the panes in the french doors before racing out screaming, returning hours later and locking himself in his room. Trevor had excused it as the bewildered greenstick grief of the young, but had later recognized it as selfishness, a fury that something had been taken from him — not from his parents and brother, but him personally.
‘I’d better have a shave.’ Matt collected his brother’s discarded beer can as he stood up. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘OK.’ Trevor rested his arms on bent knees, then raised one hand to wipe away a trickle of tears. His road of mourning seemed to stretch ahead for ever, haunted by known ghosts and faceless killers. Murder had infected all the corners of his life, and any pleasure — including love-making with his wife — was darkened, memories of good times shrivelled in the shadow of the worst thing. He also carried the irrational conviction that somehow he should have prevented it, that he had failed to protect them. Although the black dog bit less often now, it took time to shake free of its tearing teeth.
*
Deafening under the low smoke-tarred beam and plaster ceiling of the Shoulder of Mutton public bar, the chanting grew louder, amplified by stamping feet and fists banging on table tops, screams of disbelief from the girls. In a space to himself in the middle of the saloon bar, Tim eased the long bell-ended glass tube at a steeper angle above his head, gulping as the liquid poured out, eyes watching the ball, big as a grapefruit, trembling in his grasp at the far end. If he allowed that reservoir to spill over too suddenly, the final contents of a yard of ale would become a tidal wave impossible to swallow, drenching him in defeat. Encouragement and jeering warnings grew louder, but his mind was focused only on the ball and its contents. Lowering the tube to take breath meant failure (the beer had to be drunk without stopping), but everything depended on this last, delicate manoeuvre … liquid trickled from the corners of his overflowing mouth, then there was an enormous cheer as he raised the glass like a trumpet in triumph, gasping for air.
‘That’s twenty quid and you pay for the beer, right?’
‘I should have bloody known better.’ The team captain handed him the money. ‘I never thought you’d do it after how much you’ve jugged tonight.’
‘Just settling the dust,’ he panted. ‘I think I’ll have a chaser. Whisky, Maureen. Double. OK? I’m just going for a piss.’
The lavatories were on the far side of the yard and the moment he stepped into the night air he knew he had to reach them quickly. He half fell through the door of a cubicle, vomit spluttering from his mouth and splashing over the edges of the pan. Hands pressed against the narrow walls, he groaned and started to sweat.
‘Jesus.’ He tore off a handful of lavatory paper and wiped his mouth, feeling nausea rise and fall in his throat before spitting out its sticky residue. Cupped handfuls of cold water revived him, but in the mirror over the basin his face was ashen.
Crowded and raucous, the bar was heaving with heat, smelling of cigarettes and beer. Behind the racket of voices the juke box belted out Oasis at full volume. There were scattered cheers as Tim returned, waving boozy acknowledgements as he collected his whisky.
‘You look dreadful,’ Matt said. ‘Come on, I’ll get you home.’
‘Bollocks.’ He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the money he had won for drinking the yard of al
e and slapping the notes on the counter. ‘Let me know when that runs out, Maureen.’
His eyes went glazed for a moment. ‘And give me that picture, will you? That’s it … the one of Grandpa. I want to look at it.’
The barmaid took the framed photograph down from the wall behind the bar and handed it to him. It showed Ben Godwin presenting a darts trophy he had sponsored. Tim held it carefully, then rubbed the knuckles of one hand across his eyes before raising the picture and kissing the glass.
‘Love you,’ he murmured softly. ‘Never leave me.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Is Polish allowed?’ Joyce rearranged the plastic tiles on their wooden support. ‘If I put ‘zcelkas’ in front of that ‘a’, I’ll score about three hundred. It’s on a triple word.’
‘I didn’t know you spoke Polish.’
‘I don’t — but neither do you, so you can’t argue that it’s wrong.’
‘The rules say only English … in the dictionary.’
‘Spoilsport.’ She put out her tongue at him. ‘I’m miles behind.’
‘You’re the one who wanted to play.’
They were sitting up in bed, the abandoned family Scrabble board from the collection of games left in the cottage between them on the crumpled duvet. She had gone straight to Windhover as soon as Ralph had left for London, telling her mother she had to attend another pageant meeting. Love-making had been almost instant and for Joyce exquisite, but she had wanted them to share something innocent as well.
‘Then I give up.’ She jerked the board into the air, scattering the tiles. ‘It’s not fair. You know too many words … Can I read your book?’
‘No!’
She frowned at the force of his refusal. ‘Why not?’
‘It isn’t finished.’
‘That doesn’t matter … What’s it about?’
He thrust away her hand reaching for him. ‘Nothing … It’s just writing. Private things.’
‘Am I in it? Is that why you don’t want to show me?’
‘No … it’s just … It doesn’t matter.’ She was startled as he abruptly grabbed hold of her. ‘Again?’
‘Why do you need to ask?’
She winced as his fingers dug deep into her flesh, as if he were desperate to escape into her, unable to understand his anger.
*
His father’s image in her mind, Sheaffer was startled by the resemblance when Trevor Godwin opened the door. But photographs she had seen of Benjamin Godwin had shown an old man whose features retained the vigour of youth; his son was the painful doppelgänger, what could have been an almost boyish face scoured with decay and age-cloaked by coarse steel-grey hair. She wondered what he had looked like before the summer of 1990.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Godwin? I’m sorry to trouble you. My name’s Christine Sheaffer. I wonder if I could talk to you.’
He frowned. ‘What about?’
She showed her warrant card. ‘I’m with Suffolk CID … But this isn’t an official visit.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I could explain better inside … if it’s convenient. I can always come back.’
‘No … All right.’ He stepped aside, indicating the door on the far side of the kitchen. ‘Through there.’ He kicked off his rubber boots before following her.
Sheaffer identified locations she had seen in photographs as she walked ahead of him. Mrs Godwin sprawled across the doorway leading out to the yard, Thomas in here, next to the cooker, Cheryl Hood on the Persian rug by the sofa. She avoided it when Godwin invited her to sit down. She had taken care over her appearance: casual russet-coloured trousers, cream blouse, flat shoes, long hair tied in a pony tail. A visitor who presented no threat, not someone interfering, inexcusably reviving memories. But that was what she wanted to do. This was the first direct approach she had decided to make; she could persuade herself it was no more than letting the Godwins know of her existence, but the agenda was to probe, to test some of her thoughts.
‘What’s this about?’ Godwin’s voice carried a pessimistic trace of hope. ‘Has something happened?’
Sheaffer was prepared to argue later that she had been given no orders not to tell him anything. ‘Yes, but we don’t know how significant it is. Somebody’s sold a sword that matches the German one your father owned. In Bristol. We’re trying to trace them.’
‘Why haven’t I been told about this … or is that why you’re here?’
‘Not really, but I thought you should know. If we do find whoever sold it, I’m sure you’ll be officially informed.’
‘Then why have you come?’ Puzzled resentment was starting to show. ‘I’ve not met you before, have I?’
‘No. I’ve only been with CID a few months.’
‘So why’ve they sent you?’
‘I think you know Inspector Haggard?’ She waited for the nod. ‘I’ve just moved to Finch, and he thinks I might be in a useful position to hear things.’
‘Like what?’ Godwin had slumped back in his chair. He was wearing two pairs of socks, the inner one showing through a hole in the outer on his left foot.
‘I don’t know, but Mr Haggard briefed me on the inquiry.’
‘The inquiry.’ He gave a very small, bitter laugh. ‘Of course. The one that’s still marked unsolved after six years.’
‘Mr Godwin, I understand this is very painful for you, but —’
‘Do you?’ The interruption accused. ‘I mean really understand. How old are you?’
‘I don’t think that … Twenty-eight.’
‘Married?’
‘No.’
‘Ever been? Do you have children?’
‘No.’
‘But you still understand?’ The word was cynically emphasized. ‘No. I don’t think you do.’
Sheaffer controlled her reaction, telling herself he was allowed to be patronizing. ‘I hope you know what I mean, Mr Godwin. And you also know that the police have done everything possible and —’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I’ve heard it all before. It will never be closed, you’ll get them eventually. I must never think you’ve given up. What is this, Miss … Sheaffer, was it? Some new customer relations policy? Show them they get value for money from their taxes.’
‘No, sir.’ Sheaffer had anticipated anger, but it was coming sooner than she had expected. ‘We’re just doing everything we can. I’m not promising anything, but —’
‘Then don’t waste my time! I only want to see the police in this house when you come to tell me you’ve found those bastards. How the hell you do it I’m not interested in. Right?’
‘Trevor, what on earth’s going on?’
Sheaffer turned to where Janet Godwin had appeared from the hall.
‘Ask her! She’s going to miraculously solve it.’ Godwin stood up angrily and walked out of the room. The two women remained silent as they heard him cross the wooden floor of the kitchen and leave the house.
‘Police?’
‘Yes. I was trying to explain that —’
‘You chose a bad time.’ Janet Godwin wiped her hands on her apron. Working hands hardened by washing, husbandry of the garden, attendance to poultry and horses. Her face was stone pale, what must once have been pretty scarred by endurance and sorrow; tendrils of silver were threaded through the copper-brown bell of hair. Sheaffer instinctively knew she held the strength at Tannerslade. ‘It goes away, then comes back without warning. The other day I found him in the hall, just staring into space and … Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you. If it’s not any trouble.’
‘Nothing’s trouble when you own a farm. Come into the kitchen … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Christine Sheaffer. I’m a detective constable.’
She nodded an acknowledgement and Sheaffer followed her.
‘I don’t know why, but it’s somehow easier talking in here.’ Contents already partially heated, the kettle started to wheeze almost the moment sh
e switched it on. ‘Move those carrots off the chair. Now, what’s this about?’
She made the tea as she listened, and passed a mug to Sheaffer before sitting opposite her across the long scrubbed pine table. Through the window behind her the afternoon was overcast, but the shell of cloud would withhold rain that the parched verges and crops needed.
‘It doesn’t sound very official,’ she commented.
‘It’s not … but it might produce something.’
Hands clasped around the warmth of her mug, Janet Godwin smiled sadly. ‘A lot of things might have produced something, Miss Sheaffer. But they never have, so finally you stop hoping. Why should you do any better?’
‘Please call me Christine … I don’t know that I will.’
‘But you want to, don’t you?’ Janet looked at her closely. ‘Would they promote you if you did?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She held her hand up. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that … well, cynicism is as good a protection as any. Trevor’ll probably feel guilty about how he behaved later. I’ll talk to him.’
‘There’s no need … May I ask you something?’
‘If you wish.’
‘I … this isn’t my business, but why did you stay here?’
‘I married into a tradition.’ The reply was simple. ‘Our son will inherit it.’
‘But would you have come to live here if it had been your choice?’
She shook her head. ‘And I’d leave tomorrow if I could persuade Trevor. But I know I can’t. Why do you want to know?’
Sheaffer looked down at her cup. ‘I just find it difficult to understand how he could stay here.’
Janet Godwin leant forward, forcing Sheaffer to raise her eyes. ‘You think he had something to do with it, don’t you?’
‘No! I just … I didn’t mean …’ She had.
‘It’s all right, you’re not the first. Some of your colleagues obviously thought that, and there are evil tongues in Finch who’ll say it to you in an “Of course, I’d never believe such a thing” sort of way. It doesn’t offend me — unlike my husband, I’m long past being hurt by anything to do with this — but don’t waste your time on it. There’s no need to apologize.’
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