Victims

by Richardson,Robert

  Sheaffer looked at her. ‘You keep him going, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. For better and for much worse than anyone can ever imagine. What else can I tell you?’

  ‘Did you suspect anyone?’

  ‘No.’ Janet Godwin took the corner of her apron and wiped away a mark on the table top. ‘It was impossible to imagine why anyone would have done it. Nobody had a reason to hurt any of them, and if they’d just been burglars, why kill them all, even little Mandy and Thomas? My father-in-law was a brave man, but he would never have risked the lives of his family by resisting men with guns.’

  She finished her tea. ‘Is that Welsh sergeant still with you? Hughes, was it?’

  ‘No. Harry Pugh.’

  ‘That was it … Does he still suspect David?’

  ‘Cheryl’s husband? He had an alibi.’

  ‘That didn’t seem to make any difference to him. He kept asking about the marriage break-up, if they’d had rows, if he’d ever hit her.’

  ‘Had he?’

  ‘Never.’ The stressed denial was reinforced in her eyes. ‘The marriage had just died, the way they sometimes do. But everybody was desperate for someone to be punished. The village, the police, the newspapers — and us, of course. Poor David was caught up in that, even while he was burying his own children. That was dreadfully cruel.’

  ‘Do you ever see him?’

  ‘Not often now; he moved to Scotland. But we still write to each other.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Feeling guilty about every day he lives. He said that in one of his letters.’ A coarsened knuckle wiped the corner of one eye. ‘You’re scratching a lot of surfaces, Christine.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. It happens all the time. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve helped you very much.’

  ‘I didn’t expect … I just wanted you to know I was here.’ Sheaffer sensed she should leave. Contact had been made. ‘I’m sorry I upset your husband.’

  ‘He’ll be all right later … Whereabouts in Finch are you living?’

  ‘The Street. It’s called Tradewinds for some reason.’

  ‘I know it. A retired Royal Navy captain lived there. What was his name? It doesn’t matter.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll probably run into each other in the shops … You’ll let us know, won’t you? If anything happens, particularly with this Bristol thing.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sheaffer followed her to the kitchen door. ‘Can I ask you to keep this confidential? Obviously people are going to discover what my job is eventually, but I’d rather they didn’t know what I’ve told you. About being asked to listen out for anything.’

  ‘If anyone asks, I won’t even tell them you’re with the police … but they’ll find out. Believe me.’

  Sheaffer looked towards the track leading from the road. ‘I wonder if anyone saw them when they drove up? From the house.’

  ‘Mandy could have done. Her body was in the yard, so she may have been out playing. But there was no reason why it should have alarmed her. Just another visitor.’

  ‘Someone she knew?’

  ‘Possibly. Perhaps even someone she went to welcome.’ Janet Godwin sniffed slightly. ‘May I ask you something in return? If the police do find whoever did it, would it be possible for me to talk to them?’

  Sheaffer looked uncertain. ‘It could be difficult. But why?’

  ‘You don’t often get the chance to meet someone who destroyed almost everything you love.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joyce reflected that a scarlet MGF did not arrive, it made an entrance. The drive had been exhilarating, sitting close to him in the cabin as the car swept through the countryside; it made her feel young again, the effortless power of the engine a snarling echo of all the energy she had once possessed. And as she stepped out in the pub car-park, skirt riding up her thighs, face flushed, she noticed a woman walking past look at her, part surprised, part envious. She felt an instant desire to flaunt; look what I’ve got. She knew it was juvenile, but there was foolishness in her. She ran her fingers through her windblown hair and grasped Jowett’s hand as he joined her, laughing as they walked towards the restaurant entrance.

  ‘I’ve just shocked her rigid.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That woman behind us … Don’t look. Put your arm around my waist … That’s it. I bet she’s forty shades of green.’

  ‘Why should she be?’

  ‘Don’t be such an innocent. It’s because I’m having a second chance. She’d like to have a lover.’ She pulled his head towards her and kissed him. ‘God, you make me so happy.’

  Jowett felt a vivid surge of what she meant, his torment fleetingly swept away. It was as though everything that was crushing him had been briefly lifted. She was happy, and it might not be impossible to hope that … Then it passed as quickly as it had come, escape abruptly cut off. The day had created it; her suggestion that they go out together, miles from Finch where they would not be recognized. They had driven south, to where the land flattened into Essex water meadows and exposed wide skies.

  She was capricious, teasing, savouring freedom as though she wanted to grasp every essence of it. He had never been with a woman in such a mood. Girlfriends of years before had squandered such times because they were plentiful; Joyce was like a child with a precious treasure of bright pennies. So little time ago, when they had first met, she had been no more than the businesslike owner of the cottage, polite but formally distant; then she had eagerly given him her body — and was now an enraptured lover. How had it happened? He had not encouraged it — Finch was a place for remorse, not love — but he had not resisted. And amid the bewildered pleasure lay the fear that he would hurt again.

  They ordered mussels with French bread, and two huge bowls arrived piled high with grey-blue shells.

  ‘I used to pick these off the rocks in Devon when I was little.’ She pulled open a shell and plucked out the cream and brown flesh. ‘What’s the collective term for mussels? Like a pride of lions.’

  ‘I don’t know … but I know what it is for apes. An astuteness.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, I’m not. I read it somewhere.’

  ‘How bizarre. Let’s make some up.’ She thought for a moment. ‘An envy of bridesmaids. Your turn.’

  ‘OK … er … a mendacity of politicians.’

  ‘A frustration of virgins.’

  ‘An ethic of journalists.’

  ‘Very ironic.’ She laughed. ‘Just a minute … a dribble of babies.’

  ‘A resting of actors … an entrance of doormen … or an advance of publishers.’

  ‘Stop it! I give up! You’re too clever.’ She reached one hand across the table and locked her fingers between his. ‘How about an amazement of lovers?’

  He stared at her. Or the amazement of such easy laughter, of a mind freed from guilt and permitted to play again, the sense of having found a way back to all that had been lost, the disorienting gratitude. And the agony of her trust, of never being able to be honest. Of knowing there was no way to avoid pain.

  *

  The empty bar of the Shoulder of Mutton was gloomy. Coins stuck on with beer bronzed the timber surround of the fireplace, and snapshots of drinkers and pub partygoers formed a patch-work of colour on one wall. Next to a sepia photograph of a Victorian landlord beside a stagecoach, a calendar advertising Finch’s one garage still showed Miss April, naked and pouting, amid cherry blossom. Sheaffer hit the button bell on the counter; aching all over, she wanted a drink and something to eat. Her hair felt gritty as she ran a hand through it; the headscarf had been inadequate protection against plaster dust.

  ‘Wondered where you’d got to.’ Appearing through the door from the kitchen, Dave Truman resembled a figure coloured by a child, cloud of white hair, apple-red face, yellow waistcoat checked with orange stripes over a green shirt. He was holding a mug of what looked like deep brown paint. ‘Not much food left.’
r />   ‘A beef and salad sandwich’ll be fine … and a pint of shandy with three pounds of ice in it.’ She stretched, rubbing one shoulder. ‘He must have stuck that bloody paper on with Superglue.’

  Truman gushed beer into a glass. ‘I heard Dougie Thomson offering to come over and give you a hand yesterday.’

  ‘He wasn’t just interested in stripping walls. He was chatting me up the first day I came in here.’

  ‘If he knew what your job was, he’d run a mile.’ Truman topped the glass with lemonade and put it in front of her. ‘If you want an easy collar, you could pick him up for poaching any time you want — but you didn’t hear that from me.’

  ‘I’m not interested … thanks.’ She swallowed gratefully. ‘I met Janet Godwin in the shop this morning.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘For her, she looked very well. She’s invited me to go with them to the pageant on Saturday. Says it’ll be a chance for me to get to know people.’

  ‘Everyone’ll be there. I’ll be running the beer tent again.’ Truman finished whatever liquid the mug contained. ‘Just don’t start suspecting everybody you meet.’

  She pulled a face at him. ‘All right. You spelt it out the first time we talked. You’re positive they weren’t from here.’

  ‘If I owned one, I’d bet the farm on it. This village would have found them long ago.’

  ‘So why did Peter Haggard and Harry Pugh brief me?’

  ‘Perhaps they don’t agree with me. Don’t forget I was in traffic, not CID. My only contribution to Tannerslade was at one of the road blocks we set up. Waste of time, but the Chief wanted people to see we were doing everything possible. All I did was catch a joker with a van-load of stolen video recorders.’

  ‘So you think I’m wasting my time as well? Or is someone waiting for me to step out of line so they can hang me and leave me to spin in the wind?’

  ‘Not Peter Haggard. He doesn’t think like that.’

  ‘What about Harry? He thinks a woman’s place is in bed and she should only be allowed up to get the coal in.’

  Truman laughed. ‘So young and so cynical.’

  ‘It’s protective covering.’

  ‘I know what you mean — my daughter taught me. But I don’t think you’re being set up. Peter and Harry know enough to play their luck. There was a case a few years ago which was cracked by a beat copper, because he stopped off to buy fish and chips. The murderer was in the shop and panicked when he saw the uniform. It isn’t all Sherlock Holmes and forensic, Chris. Hang on, I’ll organize that sandwich.’

  *

  Jowett ran his fingers over the sharp facets of the lead crystal tumbler as though they were diamonds; she had bought it for him in the shop at the National Trust house they had visited. It was a long time since anyone had given him a present. His sister sent token money at birthdays and Christmas, and there was nobody else who would even think of it. He had protested at the cost, but she had ignored him. In return, she had asked him to buy her a book of Elizabethan romantic sonnets and had read them aloud as they had driven back to Suffolk, stopping when she spotted a ruined priory and they had made love on the grass in the afternoon sun. He could not remember such contentment — even before the murders, and there had been a few moments during the day when he had managed to forget them.

  But the aftermath was hard and cold as the glass.

  *

  ‘You’ve put on weight!’ Four pins gripped in her teeth, Sarah Merriman complained as though this was yet another disaster deliberately designed to ruin the pageant.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Joyce assured her.

  ‘Only as long as you don’t breathe. It was perfect when we tried it last week. Let me see.’ She knelt down and tugged at the waist of the dress. ‘Good God, woman! You’re not pregnant are you?’

  ‘I hope not.’ Not so soon, even with no thought of precautions.

  ‘Well, I haven’t time to let it out. I’ve got to finish six more dresses tonight.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it. I used to be quite good at dressmaking.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before? You could have done it yourself.’

  ‘I offered, but you said no.’

  ‘When did I say no?’

  ‘Weeks ago. When I agreed to play Lady Marion.’

  ‘Rubbish! I don’t do it all on my own for the fun of it.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Sarah, and we all love you for it.’ She raised the little woman to her feet and kissed her. ‘Now, go home and deal with everything else you have to do. I’ll take care of the dress.’

  She was reluctant to let go. ‘I suppose I could … Let me just check your waist again.’

  ‘No! If I’ve put on weight it’s my fault, so I’ll sort it. No arguments.’

  Carrying her carpet bag of fabric, pins, needles, endless cottons, tape measure, pinking shears — and, according to village legend, a tailor’s dummy and full-size sewing machine — she allowed herself to be ushered out.

  ‘I can come back first thing in the morning. Just call me.’ Joyce laughed as she closed the door behind her, then felt her waist experimentally. Sarah had got her measurements wrong again. It didn’t matter. She would not have to wear the dress for long — and her mind would be on other things.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darkness and terror lay in the story of the Pegman, but it had been purified; even his name had been changed to sound less threatening, more romantic. The reality lay in ancient records that spoke grimly of the Pigman, a solitary swinekeeper who had tempted children to his hovel in the woods to show them secret and unspoken magic, until three mothers had stolen out of the village one night and killed him in vengeance. But in the legend, wickedness became mischief and abuse was turned into goblin games until the fair Lady Marion, daughter of the lord of the manor, had put a charm on him and he had become a pig himself to be roasted in high style; revenge became celebration as he was eaten. Now each year a noisy pageant of children paraded through Finch to the meadow where the Pegman awaited them in flying fronds of ribbon, and there was a wild chase until the Lady Marion cried out her spell and dangers were banished from the shadows in the trees.

  Commotion and people filled The Street, spectators applauding from the pavement or waving from upper windows as floats went by; flatbed lorries transformed into forest and castle, spaceship and pirate island with coloured crêpe, tissue and ribbons. At the front a shining brass band played and a shrill Pied Piper led more than eighty children from Finch and the villages around, all dressed as elves, soldiers, rabbits and cats, figures out of fairy tale and pantomime, Batman and Star Wars and this year’s favourite Disney characters. Harlequin girls cartwheeled; a clown pulled his red-ball nose from his face and emerald smoke blew from his hat as it snapped back; men in stetsons split the air with starting pistols; a fat Mother Hubbard wobbled with laughter as she ran from a pursuing, flapping penguin; coins tinkled into plastic buckets and the crowd gasped, startled and delighted, as a maroon tore into the sky and exploded against the sun.

  Following the children, as though making sure none should be lost, rode Lady Marion in her Norman-windowed plyboard court, attended by maids and escorted by Boy Scouts, cardboard-costumed and wooden-sworded into a company of knights, silver-painted and bannered by St George. Her white muslin skirt swirling, she turned to either side, hand waving as though casting spells of goodwill, chiffon streamers floating from the high point of her conical hat. As the float reached the crossroads, she stopped for a moment; Jowett was behind the crowds on the corner opposite the church, partly shaded by trees, alone, looking straight at her. Her arm arched in a wave only for him and she shook her head as though something unbelievable was happening; private magic amid tinsel fantasy. For the past ten days he had been the only thing that mattered for her.

  ‘God bless you, Lady Marion!’

  She turned as a woman called from the other side of the road, caught up in the excitement, in the make-believe world. Evelyn Kenin, the postm
istress, whose daughter was pregnant again by her alcoholic live-in boyfriend, was escaping permanent disappointment and a sense of failure in a carnival of happy children. Joyce threw a rose to her and the procession moved on.

  At the gate a huge hand on a pole was raised in greeting, and stalls, striped tents, Victorian wooden swingboats and a bulbous scarlet and yellow castle in which to bounce and tumble, ringed the meadow. Beer was tapped from barrels and beneath a copper beech a pig slowly revolved on a spit, skin lacquered with ladles of apple juice, flesh spitting and dripping fat. Arrows flew at ringed butts and ponies gave rides; pennies were being rolled; a roaring man in the stocks was being splashed by water-soaked sponges, bells tinkled on the legs of Morris Men. Joyce leant down to take the hands of two of her knights and stepped from her float, watched by a wide-eyed boy, thumb in his mouth, too young to disbelieve.

  ‘This bodice is bloody hot!’ she complained to Fay, who had walked in among the crowd following her.

  ‘You can hardly go topless, darling. Marion’s meant to be a virgin. Stay here; I’ll get you a drink.’

  Joyce looked back at the people thronging through the gate into the meadow. Nobody was alone; husbands and wives, groups of teenagers, grandparents, lovers … but Jowett was. She instantly took in everything about him she could see — sleek hair, the shirt she had taken off him the first time, black jeans, bare feet in black leather sandals. He was walking towards her and she felt an urge to wave again, but stopped herself in case someone noticed.

  ‘Hello. Did I look completely ridiculous?’

  He shook his head. ‘You looked great. It was fun.’

  She stepped closer, speaking low and secretly, lustful and urgent. ‘The Lady Marion wishes you to attend her in her bedchamber, My Lord. And if you dare to refuse, she will order one of her knights to cut off your head.’

  He seemed embarrassed. ‘I thought your husband was home at the weekend.’