by Russ Thomas
It is then she realizes the squeak of the sun lounger has stopped.
She jumps up and looks out of the window. Edna is gone. She feels the hair stand up on her arms, and her heart leaps into her throat. She yanks open the wardrobe door and looks for somewhere to hide the letter. Anywhere. There is a pair of old moccasins near the back, and Lily jams both the scrunched-up letter and envelope into one, inside and up into the toe. Then she closes the wardrobe door and presses her back up against it.
She hurries downstairs to find Edna standing in the front room holding an overcoat.
“What have you been doing up there?”
“Nothing,” says Lily.
Edna considers her suspiciously.
“I thought I might change into something cooler.” Lily can’t help but skate her eyes toward the grandmother clock. Has it been moved? Surely not, or she would be hearing about it by now.
Edna blinks. “But you didn’t. You’re wearing exactly the same thing you were a half hour ago.”
“Yes, I changed my mind.”
Edna’s eyebrows furrow, but she clearly has something else on her mind since she lets the topic go a little too easily. She thrusts an arm out toward Lily. “Here,” she says, pressing into Lily’s hand a page from a notepad covered in spidery blue ink. “The list I made yesterday.” Edna stares at her. “You said you were going into the village.”
“I did?” She can’t remember saying any such thing. But it would be the perfect opportunity to get rid of the letters. If only they weren’t both so irretrievable. She can’t think of any reason to head back upstairs now, let alone for fiddling with the clock.
“Well, are you going or not?”
Lily glances at the list in her hand. “I shall never manage all this.”
“For goodness’ sake, woman, it’s only a couple of chops.” Edna begins forcing Lily’s arms into the sleeves of a coat she hardly needs in this weather. “Look, just do your best. And take your time. It’s a nice afternoon; you ought to make the most of it. Why don’t you go down to the river and get some fresh air for a change? You could take that bread for the ducks.”
“But that’s what I—”
“Oh, Lillian, do stop fussing and get a move on!”
Before she knows it, Lily finds herself ushered out of the house and down the path. She glances back to see Edna watching her from the gate. Edna raises a hand in farewell and Lily follows suit. As she turns down the path toward the road a thought occurs to her. If she didn’t know better, she might almost think Edna was trying to get rid of her.
* * *
—
He drives with Doggett studiously ignoring him from the passenger seat, apart from occasional flinches at nonexistent near misses, or the odd mumble about the merits of the advanced driving course. No further mention is made of his relationship to the DCI.
Diane Jordan has been in Tyler’s life longer than he can remember. Longer, in fact. Godmother is understating it slightly; there were times when she was more of a mother to him and his brother than anyone else. Not that she had much to compete with. Jordan and his father were colleagues first, then partners, then friends, and, finally—if their mother was to be believed—more than friends. But then, their mother accused Richard of having affairs with just about every woman he ever came into contact with, so she was hardly the most reliable source. If he was having any affairs, neither Tyler nor his brother knew about them. Then again, why would they?
He can’t remember the exact moment Diane Jordan went from being “Auntie Di” to “That Bloody Woman,” but he remembers well those end days, when it was just the three of them because Richard was always at work. Tyler; his brother, Jude; and their crazy mother. She would tell them, sometimes in graphic detail, exactly what she thought Richard and That Bloody Woman were getting up to. He would have been ten at that point, Jude thirteen. Yet it was Tyler who saw the holes in these fantasy stories and Jude, the older brother, who was content to go along with them. Later, after their mother was no longer in the picture, Jude wanted nothing to do with the woman he held responsible for their ills, but Tyler could never find any blame for Auntie Di. Perhaps Jude, being older, thought he didn’t need a mum anymore, but Tyler wasn’t ready to give anyone else up. Of course, it wasn’t long before he had to. First Jude, who ran off to fight in Tony Blair’s war in the desert. And then Richard, who lost a battle of his own.
Doggett makes a show of stretching out his limbs, as though waking from a long, relaxing journey, and he yawns extravagantly. Tyler realizes he’s been driving on autopilot again. They’re already at the Old Vicarage.
The SOCO team is still combing the grounds. The incident room is packed full of plainclothes detectives, with Guy Daley ostensibly in charge. The detective sergeant acknowledges his superior with a cheeky “All right, boss?” but Doggett ignores him entirely. Shuffling with paperwork in one corner of the room, Constable Rabbani does her best to look inconspicuous but fails miserably. Daley has spent the morning collating the information brought in by Uniform. He takes them through it, but it amounts to very little.
“Anything from Elliot yet?” Doggett asks, dropping into a swivel chair.
“No, boss.”
The DI snorts and rolls his eyes. “What about visitors?”
“Sir?”
“Anyone been poking around asking questions?”
Daley clicks at his mouse, perhaps hoping the laptop has the answers he needs, but it’s Rabbani who answers, her voice squeaky and faint. “There was some vicar over from the church next door.” She does her best to ignore Daley’s scowl. “He seemed pretty worried about what were happening.”
“I bet he was.” Doggett spins to face Tyler. “Always note who’s paying the most attention. Chances are they’re in it up to their eyeballs.” He swings back to Rabbani. “Name?”
“The Reverend Thorogood.”
Doggett spins a full circle in his chair. “Thorogood? And he’s a vicar? He’s bloody made that up!” He jumps out of the chair as though springing into action but instead ends up pacing the tiny room like a disgruntled tiger, elbowing past detectives who can’t quite keep out of his way. “All right,” he says, changing tack entirely. “Gerald Cartwright left home in his car just after six on the morning of Monday, the twenty-sixth of July, 2010, and drove to Hope station.” He stumbles as he reaches the end of the room too quickly, makes a frustrated turn, and pulls out a notebook. “We established this because that’s where we found his car. It was assumed he caught the six thirty-two train to Sheffield, as was his custom, at which point he would have changed for the seven twenty-seven service to St. Pancras. He was then supposed to be catching the tube to Heathrow and a flight on to Germany. When he failed to arrive for his meeting in Frankfurt, a call was made to his office in London. They tried him at home and on his mobile repeatedly for five days. No one called the police. Finally a neighbor”—he looks at his notes—“Edna Burnside, rang his secretary at nine fifty-six a.m. on Monday, the second of August. She then rang the police. Our investigation proved he never got on the plane to Germany. We assumed that somewhere between leaving his car at the village station and catching his plane at Heathrow, Gerald Cartwright was either snatched or did a runner.” He sits back in the chair and then immediately gets up again. “Some poor sod looked at CCTV at Sheffield, on the trains, and along just about every conceivable tube route he could have taken. And found absolutely bugger all.” He looks up from his notebook. “Which isn’t very surprising with hindsight, since we can now safely assume he never left home in the first place.” He collapses back into the chair.
“We don’t know it’s him yet,” Tyler reminds him.
Doggett narrows his eyes. “Until Elliot tells us otherwise, we’ll assume it is. Now, assuming he never made the train, whatever happened to him happened the weekend of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of July. We know he held one
of his infamous bunga-bunga parties that weekend but—surprise, surprise—we never did track down anyone who would admit to being there. We know it took place, though, because it was catered for in advance and got cleaned away afterward by the hired help.”
“Any suspects?” Daley asks.
Doggett looks at Tyler, encouraging him to take over. “DI Doggett believes Cartwright’s son could be involved.”
Daley nods. “He was a bit of a shifty little bastard.”
“He was also the last person we know of who saw his father alive,” says Doggett. “The kid stayed over at the neighbors’ house that weekend, which was par for the course apparently when Gerry was entertaining.” He gives the word extra emphasis by creating bunny-ear speech marks with his fingers.
“When did Oscar last see his father?” Tyler asks.
“The Friday night. Or so he says.”
“What about the caterers? Or the cleaners?”
“The caterers dropped the food round Friday afternoon, and the cleaner was some old girl from the village who let herself in on Monday morning. She never saw Gerry, assumed he’d left for work earlier that morning, as did everyone else. She admitted the place looked tidier than usual, but the food had been eaten, and we figured Gerry didn’t scoff the lot all by himself.”
“So the last person who definitely saw Cartwright alive was the kid,” Daley confirms. He nods to himself, metaphorically preparing the handcuffs. Job done.
“Apart from whoever was at the party,” Tyler adds. “We know there was a party.”
Daley looks at him. “Maybe the lad was at the party, too.”
“All right, all right.” Doggett holds up both his hands to them. “Where do we start?”
“We should bring him in,” says Daley.
Tyler doesn’t realize he’s sighed out loud until he sees everyone looking at him.
“I take it you have another suggestion?” Doggett asks.
“I thought we might at least make an attempt at gathering some evidence before we get the thumbscrews out.” The room falls into awkward silence, and Daley scowls. This is exactly what Jordan was talking about. He makes an attempt to move things on. “Edna Burnside?”
Doggett nods slowly. “All right. Edna Burnside and Lily Bainbridge. Neighbors and family friends. Apparently they pretty much raised the little sod, and I’ve never met a pair of old ladies who didn’t like a good gossip.”
Daley consults his computer screen once more. No one from Uniform has yet spoken to the elderly neighbors. He starts to get up but Doggett says, “Not you. I’ve got another job for you.” He passes Daley a page from his notebook. Daley reads it and then nods. Doggett turns to Tyler. “You can talk to the old dears.”
“What about you?”
“You don’t need me to hold your hand, do you, Sergeant?” There’s a ripple of laughter through the incident room. “I’m going to chase Elliot for those results. There’s not much we can do until we know for sure it’s Cartwright. Besides, I have a feeling you’ll get more out of them than I’m likely to.” Doggett starts for the door. “The rest of you,” he shouts at the room, “go over statements, revisit Cartwright’s businesses, legitimate or otherwise. From the day he was born to the day he died. Everything you can find out about the man. Well, go on then. What are you waiting for? Pull your bloody fingers out!”
There’s a bustle of activity in the room. Tyler calls out over the hubbub, “I should have someone with me at least.”
“Take your new pet,” Doggett shouts. He stops, turns, and shouts across the room. “Constable Rabbani?”
“Sir?”
“DS Tyler needs someone to look after him. Do the honors, would you? And Rabbani?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re in CID now, so you can lose the bloody uniform, understood?”
Rabbani shuts her mouth and swallows. “Yes, sir,” she says. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, Constable. You’re working for DS Tyler now. May the good Lord have mercy upon your soul.” He clatters his way out through the door to the sound of more laughter.
Rabbani stands there staring at the closing door.
“I need that address,” Tyler tells her. “Now.”
“I’m on it,” Rabbani says, dropping into a chair and starting to tap at a keyboard. “And thanks, Sarge.”
* * *
—
Oliver Road is a short cul-de-sac that curves up and behind the Old Vicarage. It takes them a few minutes to find the unpaved path leading between the hedges of number 7 and number 25. It snakes up between the two houses and then turns at a right angle and continues past numbers 9 through 23, a row of smaller cottages set behind the gardens of the houses on the road. The final house, number 23, backs onto the garden of the Old Vicarage itself but is completely hidden from the road. Tyler can see glimpses of the red-brick building through the trees. He rings the bell and taps on the front door while Rabbani explores the path at the side of the house. After a few moments her voice slips around the edge of the cottage: “Sir.”
He follows her up the path until it emerges into a small cottage garden with a thin strip of lawn punctuated by a sole apple tree. Someone has been sitting here recently; an open book lies discarded on a rather bizarre canopied swing seat. Rabbani points to the open door that is inviting them to step into the unbearably hot conservatory. The fabric of the chairs inside is faded from long years of exposure to the sun. The air is thick with dust, and Tyler has to fight the urge to sneeze. On one of the shelves there is a framed photograph of a young boy, about seven or eight, standing on a stool at the kitchen sink, his hands and arms sunk first into a pair of bright yellow Marigold gloves and then into the sink itself. There are clouds of washing-up liquid bubbles, out of which he grins a familiar smile. Oscar Cartwright. He is everywhere.
The door into the main house is closed. He taps lightly on the glass and cups his hands to the window. The inside of the house is old and weary, a mass of paisley patterns and dark, heavy fabrics. He bangs on the door again, louder this time, and eventually a dark shape slides toward them.
“Who is it?”
He raises his warrant card to the window.
After some fumbling with chains the door opens and a bent figure steps hesitatingly out into the conservatory. “It’s too hot in here,” she says without preamble, and, rather than inviting them inside, ushers them back out into the garden.
Tyler introduces both himself and Rabbani. The woman takes each identification card and examines it scrupulously. No bogus gasman would get far at this door. It’s obvious the crippled, bent-double figure before them once stood tall and imperious because she has lost none of her presence for all of her age. It’s not so difficult to imagine this severe, hard-angled woman as the headmistress she once was. Miss Edna Burnside radiates authority and confidence.
She gestures to the garden chairs and offers them tea. He declines for both of them, concerned the effort might just finish her. She lowers herself awkwardly onto the swing contraption and stares at them alternately. Rabbani shifts uncomfortably under the woman’s gaze, as though she’s been called to the headmistress’s office to defend her behavior.
“Ms. Burnside,” he begins.
“Miss!” she snaps.
He tries again. “Miss Burnside, we’d like to ask you some questions about your neighbor—”
“Yes,” she interrupts again, “a grisly business.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, as though death is an old but unwelcome friend.
He doesn’t really mind the bluntness; in his experience these things tend to go one of two ways: either people fall over themselves in an effort to be helpful or are close-mouthed to the point of obstruction. Either way you don’t trust them. You trust no one. Believe nothing. Least of all strangers you meet in bars.
Still. There’s something a little too chil
ling in the woman’s tone. If it’s bluntness she appreciates, he can do blunt. “You don’t seem very concerned you’ve spent the last six years with a mummified corpse for a neighbor.”
“Should I be?” she asks. “There’s a graveyard of corpses at the bottom of the garden. One more makes no difference at my age.” She stares at him. Next question.
“But you were friends with Gerald Cartwright, weren’t you?”
She avoids the question by asking her own. “It is Gerald, then?”
He decides on a different approach. “I understand you don’t live alone.”
She looks at him calmly and blinks. He realizes his mistake; he hasn’t asked a question. He phrases his words more carefully. “Is Miss Bainbridge at home?”
“No, Inspector.”
He’s beginning to tire of this. “Sergeant.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s Detective Sergeant. Where is Miss Bainbridge?”
Burnside lowers her head. “I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant, I’m afraid Lily will not be able to answer your questions.”
“And why is that?”
“She’s . . . she’s no longer in a position to help anyone.” There’s the first crack in her voice.
Tyler opens his mouth and then closes it again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.”
She brushes away the apology. “She wouldn’t have been able to tell you anything I can’t anyway.”