by Russ Thomas
Rabbani catches his eye; her leg is bouncing up and down with displaced nervous energy. He gives her the nod.
“How well did you know Mr. Cartwright?” she asks.
“Very well,” says Burnside. “We were neighbors. And friends.”
“Good friends?”
“Well, I met Cynthia first, Gerald’s wife. She was younger than Gerald, of course, and got terribly bored, I think. It was Gerald’s idea to move to the country, and that was all right for him, he was only here at weekends, but Cynthia found it all very lonely. She volunteered to help out at the church, and that’s how we met.” It’s a well-rehearsed story, but it’s a story nonetheless. It’s all coming out far too easily. “Then she fell pregnant. A blessing for her. At first, anyway. Then along came Oscar; you’ll have met Oscar?” Burnside’s tone shifts here; the sternness softens a little, the edges melt. “We were at the birth; Gerald was away, of course. He was such a beautiful baby, our little cherub, with that pale skin and those golden locks. Very sweet natured.” The voice shifts again, and they’re back into the rehearsed speech. “But Gerald was away a lot, and Cynthia found it very hard to cope. The doctor called it postnatal depression, I think. I’m not sure she ever really wanted a child. She was certainly happy enough to leave it to the two of us most of the time. After that there was some talk in the village of her having a lover, but if she did she never confided in me. Still, it wasn’t exactly a surprise when she took herself off.”
Rabbani’s leg is moving up and down like a pneumatic drill. Edna Burnside shoots her a look over the top of her spectacles, and the leg stops.
“Can you tell us more about Gerald’s disappearance?” she asks.
“I can,” Burnside states.
He tries to imagine Oscar in this house, this horn-rimmed tyrant standing over him. She seems a very unlikely woman to take in and care for an unruly teenager. “Will you, please?”
“Gerald didn’t cope very well after Cyn went. He took on staff from time to time, but largely it was left to the two of us to care for the boy. Gerald threw himself into his work, and then one day he didn’t come home.”
Tyler’s had enough of the rehearsed speech. “Which day was that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Which day was it—exactly—that he didn’t come home?”
“I don’t remember exactly.” She smooths her hands on her trousers. “A Friday, I imagine. He usually came home on a Friday.”
“And the month?”
She thinks for a moment. “It was summer, I think . . .”
He doesn’t believe this woman has ever forgotten anything in her life.
Then she turns the questioning around again. “You do keep records, do you not? He was reported missing. There was some sort of an investigation, if I recall.” The subtext is unmistakable—she holds the police responsible for not finding him. She’s sweating profusely in the heat, and for the first time he notices how frail she is. The confident bluster is a smoke screen.
He pushes on regardless. “Who reported him missing?” Burnside looks at Rabbani, but Tyler calls her attention back. “Ms. Burnside,” he pushes her, “who reported Mr. Cartwright missing?”
She snaps her head back around. “Miss. I did. I rang his office and his secretary told me he hadn’t made his meetings that week, so I rang the police.” The sweat is pouring from her forehead now, her breathing labored.
“Can you go on?” he asks.
“My pills,” she says. “In there.” She gestures to the conservatory.
He gets up and steps back into the house.
“On the shelf,” she shouts after him.
He finds a wooden pillbox inlaid with mother-of-pearl next to the photo of Oscar. He takes it to her and she extracts a small yellow tablet and throws it to the back of her throat. They wait patiently while she composes herself, and after a few moments Burnside says, “Do we really have to go through all of this again? I told everything to that horrible little man six years ago. You must know it already.”
“How did Oscar handle his father’s disappearance?” Rabbani asks.
“Oscar?” Burnside frowns. “He coped. We all did. We had to.”
“But losing his mum like that, and then his dad as well?”
“He didn’t lose Cynthia. She didn’t disappear, she ran off. She even rang to see if he was all right. I spoke to her myself, tried to talk some sense into the selfish woman.”
“He must have been upset, mind.” Rabbani’s thick Yorkshire accent turns must into moost, upset into oopset. It’s oddly endearing, a stark contrast against Burnside’s Radio 4 pronunciation.
She looks at Rabbani coolly, however. “Of course he was upset. He had nightmares, some behavioral problems, but we got through them together.”
“Until you shipped him off to boarding school,” Tyler points out.
The imperious gaze turns back to him. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Inspector—”
He interrupts her again, enjoying it this time. “Sergeant.”
She blinks but remains unruffled. “Oscar is a perfectly well-adjusted young man. If you don’t wish to take my word for that, I suggest you speak to his fiancée. I believe she’s studying law. Following in her father’s footsteps. Yes, I’m sure Michael would be very interested in your line of questioning. Perhaps I should call him now?”
Her words hit him in the face, and for a few seconds it is as though time is suspended. The moments tick by while Edna Burnside looks from him to Rabbani and back again. Rabbani is staring at him, too, willing him to speak. He manages to say, “I think we’ve bothered you enough for one afternoon.” His voice sounds distant and tinny.
They get up, and Edna Burnside struggles to raise herself from her swing. He reaches out to help her, but the woman pushes him away. “I can manage.”
She sees them out, and as they walk back along the path Tyler looks over his shoulder to see her still watching them from the gate. His head feels light and fuzzy, as though he got up too quickly and has left some part of himself behind in the fusty little cottage. Everything—the birdsong, the sunlight—is dull and flattened.
“Well?” says Rabbani from somewhere a long way off.
“Well what?”
“She were lying her arse off about summat, weren’t she?”
Her words make him smile. “Why all the questions about Cartwright’s son?” He can’t even say the man’s name anymore.
“Doggett said he were a suspect.”
Soospect. The word clatters around in his head, making no real sense. He feels as drunk as he did last night.
“Don’t get fixated on that,” he tells her. “There are others.”
“Like who?”
But he doesn’t yet have an answer to that.
“He’d have been what, fifteen? That’s old enough to knock your old man on the head if he gives you a reason.”
Tyler looks back along the silent country lane. “Find me a death certificate for Lily Bainbridge,” he says. “And check Cynthia Cartwright’s medical records.”
“Could be tricky,” she tells him. “Confidentiality and all that.”
“Find a way.” He wants to know if that business about postnatal depression has any truth to it. He pauses, and then he has to add what he’s been avoiding. “You better find out what you can about this fiancée as well.”
Rabbani pulls out her notebook and rifles through the pages. “Sophie Denham,” she says, stopping to read. “Her father’s Michael Denham, the Cartwrights’ family solicitor. Her and Oscar were at school together, childhood sweethearts. She were interviewed during the original investigation.”
Tyler looks at her, and she swallows. “Research, Sarge. I thought it might be useful.”
“All right,” he tells her. “Keen is good, but no one likes a smartarse.”
> There’s something about her expression that leaves him considering his words all the way back to the incident room.
* * *
—
When they arrive back at the incident room, Rabbani does her best to stay behind Tyler. If the DI sees she’s still wearing a uniform he might change his mind about allowing her on board. She doubts it would make the slightest bit of difference that she’s not yet had time to change.
It’s Guy Daley who greets them, however. “That was quick.” His eyes trudge up and down her body, just as they always do. She can feel the muddy footprints they leave behind.
“Shut up, Daley.” Doggett’s voice makes her jump. He’s standing in the corner, tucked behind the door, mobile pressed to his ear. “How’d you get on?” Before they can answer he raises a finger, listens for a moment, and then shouts into the phone: “You can bloody well find him then!” He slams the mobile down on the desk, looks up at the room in general, and starts a new tack. “Next?”
“The gardener,” says DS Tyler.
“What gardener?”
“He was in the churchyard when I arrived yesterday.”
“And?”
“And I think he’s worth talking to.”
Doggett taps a pen against the desk. He’s always bloody tapping away at something. He turns to Guy Daley, who’s watching from behind a monitor. “Any chance you might do some work today, sunshine?” Then he heads for the door. “You better find this bloke’s address, then.”
“You’re coming on this one, then?” Tyler asks.
“If that’s all right with you, boss? You can tell me about the old dears on the way.” Doggett checks his watch. “Just let me squeeze one out, first. I’ll be in the Portaloo when you’ve found the address.” The door rebounds against the flimsy wall and closes behind him.
Tyler turns to Rabbani. “Joe Wentworth,” he says. “Can you find me the address?”
She feels the heat that flushes across her face, and she lowers her head quickly so that nobody sees. She has to stop this. One minute she’s ready to twat the man, and the next she’s lusting after him like he’s the first man with a pretty face she’s ever seen. She can barely talk to him. Why did he ask for her on his team? Assuming he did. That seemed to be what Doggett implied, and she’s pretty sure Doggett didn’t just change his mind about her.
Not that she owes Tyler anything. If anything he owes her. That’s probably the only reason he asked for her anyway. Out of a sense of obligation, because he were the one that got her in the shit in the first place. So that’s that. They’re even now. So why does she feel this constant need to impress him?
It wouldn’t be so bad if she thought he were even the slightest little bit interested. But of course he isn’t. On the other hand, at least he doesn’t check out her arse every time she walks past, unlike Dirty Daley. She’s not sure she’d mind all that much if he did. She feels her cheeks redden again and risks a glance up from her monitor at the DS. God, he’s pretty. Even now, glaring at Daley while that livid red scar tugs at the corner of his mouth and highlights his disdain for the man. She makes a mental note that when it blows up between the two of them, and she’s no doubt it will, she isn’t going to let herself get caught in the middle.
“What?” Daley says when he finally sees Tyler watching him.
“While we’re gone, how about talking to that vicar, get a statement off him?”
Daley screws his face up like the toddler that he is. “I’m not your fuckin’ gofer, Tyler!”
The DS’s nostrils flare and for a moment Rabbani thinks he’s going to explode, but then he visibly takes a deep breath and swallows whatever he was going to say. “It’s up to you, mate, obviously. But you heard the DI just now; maybe you could do worse than try to impress the man.”
“He’s already given me my job.” Daley sneers and waves the notebook page Doggett gave him earlier. “I’m watching the kid. Guess he wants someone who knows what they’re doing looking at the real suspects. Why don’t you stick to the old dears?”
She’s sure Tyler’s going to react to that one, but he just smiles slightly and turns back to her. Rabbani quickly jots down the address for Joe Wentworth and passes it across to him.
“Set up that interview with Sophie Denham,” he tells her.
She watches him leave. There’s an edge to him since they talked to the old woman. Like he’s grown even colder somehow. As if that were possible. The door clatters closed behind him and she turns to see Daley watching her.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree with that one, love,” he says.
This time she decides to stare him out.
* * *
—
As an excuse to pass the Old Vicarage, Lily takes the long way round to the village rather than using the shortcut through the churchyard. It is unbearably hot; the weak breeze that followed her from the garden didn’t even make it up the path to the gate. She wants to stop, to put down her basket for a moment on the far side of the road and watch the hubbub of activity. She dares not. Instead she slows to a snail’s pace. There are numerous cars and vans parked on the gravel driveway and a cluster of people at the gates, a mixture of faces she recognizes and many others she doesn’t. The sense of urgency—of a normality interrupted and a great rush to set things right—is palpable; but for all of that, none of these people seem to be getting anything done. It reminds her of the wasps buzzing both furiously and lazily round the jars under the apple tree.
“Rather unsettling, isn’t it?”
The voice comes from behind her and makes her jump. She turns to find the solicitor, Michael Denham, smiling at her with his wolfish grin.
“I do apologize, Miss Bainbridge. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, yes, no . . . that’s quite all right.”
“Yes, a terrible thing. A body, they’re saying. In the cellar, of all places. It does make you think, doesn’t it?”
The sun is reflecting off his glasses, and Lily can’t tell if the man is looking at her or the house or something else entirely.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “I understand from Sophie your Oscar is back?”
“Oh, yes,” says Lily, on much firmer ground here. “A few weeks ago now. My goodness, but he’s grown!”
Michael smiles at her, this time without showing his teeth. It’s a curious smile, and suggests he thinks she’s said something amusing. She’s not altogether certain she hasn’t. Of course he’s grown, it’s what young boys do, isn’t it? She’s never been good at these sorts of conversations. And then a thought occurs to her. It could be him. She sways slightly and feels herself falling sideways.
Michael Denham catches her arm to support her, but she pulls away from him sharply.
“I thought you were going to go over.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m all right now. It’s the heat, I expect.”
“Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’ve got the car just round the corner.”
“No! No, really, it’s very kind of you . . . but I’m only popping into the village.” Then she stops, not wanting to tell him exactly where she’s going.
“Are you sure that’s wise? In this heat.” He waves his briefcase like a fan and smiles again.
“I’m sure I’ll be all right. Thank you.”
“Very well.” He hesitates for a moment, as though he intends to say more. Then he simply says, “You be careful then, won’t you?” And without waiting for an answer he walks away from her.
You be careful. She wonders what he meant by that and why it sounded much more like a threat than concern.
I know what you did.
Lily hurries on into the village. She has to queue in the butcher’s. She stands behind a fat man she doesn’t recognize. There are far too many people in the village lately that she doesn’t recognize. And yet, unusually, it isn�
�t the strangers anymore that cause Lily anxiety. It’s the people who know her. For only someone who knows her could have sent the letters. As horrifying as that thought is, she has to accept it. Ahead of the fat man is the woman she calls Mrs. Mink. She is wearing her trademark hat and stole, despite the weather. And in front of Mrs. Mink there are two women Lily recognizes too well.
“Went up like a rocket,” Carol Braithwaite is saying. She is a good twenty years or so younger than Lily but has a hard, weather-beaten face. Lily always thinks this is odd for a woman who has spent so much of her life indoors.
“Right shame,” replies the woman standing with her. She’s much younger than Carol and wears a headscarf with a paisley pattern. Lily can’t remember her name but thinks she’s related to Carol in some way. A niece, or a daughter-in-law or something. Yes, perhaps a daughter-in-law. Carol has a lot of sons if she remembers rightly. Some of them from the same husband.
Neither of the women notice her arrival since her entrance coincided with another customer leaving, meaning the bell on the door rang only once and failed to draw their attention.
“They’ll not bother with a new one,” Carol says authoritatively. “It’ll be stand in the rain and catch your death!”
The younger woman hums agreement while the butcher, George, slices thin slivers of red meat for her. “It’ll be kids smoking, I shouldn’t wonder,” he tells them.
Carol shakes her head. “Arson, according to our Philip. Went up something fierce, it did.”
George shouts over his shoulder to the back of the shop. “Where are you, lad? Barry!”
Young Barry emerges from the back absently wiping a finger on his apron. The butcher’s boy has also grown since Lily last saw him, but outward rather than upward. “Yeah?” he asks sullenly.
“Any chance you might put that bleedin’ phone down for five minutes and lend me a hand?” George points to Mrs. Mink, who gives the lad her order.
Lily watches him cut the meat. He’s wearing no gloves and his fingers are reddened with blood. He has his nose pierced in three places. One of them is adorned with a ring that, given his size, makes him look not unlike the fattened pig he is working on.