by Angela Arney
As if to confirm his analysis she looked at her watch, and said briskly, ‘I hope you won’t be too long with me, Chief Inspector. I have an evening surgery to do before I can go home.’
‘I’ll be as brief as possible. Just tell me how you became involved in this,’ he hesitated, then said ‘accident.’ It was better to leave it at that for the time being. Gossip would spread like wildfire through Stibbington soon enough, no need to fan the flames until he was sure.
Lizzie told him her name and how she’d seen Darren Evans as a patient the previously Wednesday, but didn’t know he lived at the bungalow until she’d been waylaid by Mrs Matthews. Adam Maguire listened and made a few notes. She had a nice voice, he thought. Calm and quiet. Obviously not local, no trace of a Hampshire dialect. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her around before and he knew most of the doctors in Stibbington personally. Then he remembered. Dr Burton had recently retired and a woman had taken his place. His mind drifted for a moment. Dr Burton. Nice man. He’d looked after Rosemary during her final days. Rosemary. Would he ever get over the feeling of emptiness that swept through him whenever he thought of her? Trouble was that although he felt her loss as keenly as ever, he was beginning to forget what she had looked like. In the beginning she’d been so real that he’d felt he could almost see and touch her. Almost. But now, three years on, her image had faded, leaving him with only brief insubstantial glimpses. But those glimpses made him feel lonelier than ever. He couldn’t bear to let her go, yet the mere act of continuing to live without her was forcing her further and further away.
‘Of course, it doesn’t look like an accident to me.’
Lizzie Browne’s statement jerked his mind back to the present. He looked at her. She was standing near the door, ready for flight, bulky doctor’s bag in one hand, car keys in the other. She looked impatient. Adam suspected that she knew his mind had been wandering, and it put him on the defensive. ‘Really, Dr Browne. Speaking as an expert, are you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen my fair share of death. Natural, unnatural, and violent. This obviously was not natural, and in my opinion looked far too violent to be a plain accident. The weight of a car falling on someone’s head would do serious damage, but I doubt that it would smash it like an eggshell. In my opinion that van was driven over him.’
‘Thank you for your opinion, Dr Browne. But I’ll be glad if you would keep your thoughts to yourself until we’ve had a proper report.’ Adam knew he sounded stuffy, a regular Mr Plod, in fact, but something about the woman raised his hackles. Annoying thing was, he couldn’t explain why. He noted the impatient swing of her medical bag with irritation. ‘I know you’ve got to get to your surgery so I won’t detain you any longer, although as we shall need to speak to you later I shall need your address.’
Lizzie gave the address briskly. ‘Silver Cottage, Deer Leap Lane, Upper Stibbington.’
Feeling guilty Maguire tried to make amends and inject a note of friendliness into the proceedings. ‘Silver Cottage. I know it. A very pretty little thatched cottage, with a vast garden. Your husband will have his work cut out to tame that wilderness.’
‘I don’t have a husband. I shall be employing a gardener.’
She turned and in a moment was gone. A faint whiff of perfume lingered, and Maguire was left with a vague feeling of uneasiness knowing that he could have handled things better. But there was no time to worry about antagonizing a local doctor; there was work to be done. He left the bungalow and returned to the garage.
Steve Grayson had been busy. The area around the cottage was now sealed off with blue and white plastic tape secured to stakes in the sodden earth. The tape flapped dismally in the wind and rain, making a sharp clicking sound, a contrast to the hiss of the steady downpour. A screen was in the process of being erected to protect the garage and its contents from prying eyes. Even in a small town like Stibbington local people and the press could be intrusive, as both Adam and Steve knew to their cost. At the end of the drive one very unhappy, wet policeman stood on guard for the same reason. Adam Maguire was inclined to share Lizzie Browne’s view that Darren Evans’s death was no accident, although he was saying nothing for the moment.
He walked down to where Grayson was talking to the officer on guard. ‘Okay?’ he asked the duty policeman.
‘Yes, sir,’ came the mumbled reply. It was the newest recruit to Stibbington police station, Kevin Harrison. Adam felt sorry for him. A rotten job. He could well remember what it was like to stand on duty in the rain, a steady stream of water plopping with monotonous regularity from the brim of his helmet on to his nose.
Steve Grayson was buoyant. ‘At last, a case to get our teeth into,’ he said.
‘Don’t sound so bloody cheerful; that poor sod back there is dead.’ Adam stood back as a photographer came past, lugging his gear into the garage. ‘Get a move on,’ he told him, ‘the pathologist will be here any minute, and he won’t want to hang around waiting for you to finish, not in this weather.’ He turned to Steve. ‘Where is Merryweather? He has been informed, hasn’t he?’
‘Of course. And I told him it was the kind of gory case he likes.’
Yes that was true. Phineas Merryweather, local forensic pathologist, was doctor, poet, musician, bon viveur, and connoisseur of fine wines who also loved a ‘bit of gore’ as he was fond of saying. Adam Maguire, on the other hand did not. Sometimes he wondered whether it was his subconscious desire for a quiet life that had made him choose the job at Stibbington. He had escaped from Liverpool and the never-ending string of inner-city crimes to the relative peace and security of rural Hampshire. Rosemary had wanted to leave the city, and he had wanted whatever she wanted. Now, though, he could move, in fact had been offered promotion to do so, but he lacked the motivation. Besides, if he were honest, he rather liked the slower pace of life in Stibbington. The people were friendly in small, unobtrusive ways. And there were not many cases like the one he was faced with now. Murder, and against his better judgement he knew he’d made up his mind, was a rare event in Stibbington.
He went back to the garage, and stood watching the photographer. Lights flashing, the photographer dodged about taking pictures from every conceivable angle. Adam felt sorry for the boy on the floor. Death had already robbed him of personality. It always did. Darren Evans was now a statistic. All that remained of a life. The photographs would show a bloody corpse with a splattered head, a thin body with legs like sticks protruding from beneath the van. The pictures would be looked at, commented on, then put in a file, and that would be that.
‘What have you found out about him?’ he said to Steve Grayson who joined him in the garage.
‘Not much,’ replied his sergeant. ‘Twenty-seven years old. A registered addict. Heroin.’
‘I know,’ said Maguire. ‘Dr Browne prescribed his methadone only this week.’
‘Well,’ continued Grayson, ‘he’d been on the stuff for years. Got his regular prescription for methadone from Dr Jamieson, Honeywell Health Centre, but mainlined as well judging by the state of his arms. Born here. He left Stibbington after school, had a short spell in prison for aggravated burglary, came back here when he got out and has kept his head low ever since.’
‘Did you know him? You’ve lived here all your life.’
Grayson screwed up his face. ‘I’ve been trying to think. Name seems vaguely familiar. I’ll run it through the computer again when we get back. But I’ve never met him.’
‘What about when you were at school?’
Grayson rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘I’m six years older than he was, sir. I’d left secondary school just as he was starting. Then I moved away for five years.’
Maguire sighed, he should have realized. Trouble was twenty-seven or thirty-three, it all seemed the same to him. Incredibly young. ‘Have we been keeping an eye on him?’
‘Not us at Stibbington. No reason to. Hampshire Drug Squad has been vaguely interested. They’d like to know how he could afford drugs and to bu
y this place, which apparently belongs to him. Although God knows why anyone should want to buy it.’ Grayson looked around at the tangled garden and run down bungalow, dismissing it with a glance. ‘It’s a dump. But apparently he managed to pay all his bills on time, and his state benefit wouldn’t have covered it. So they guessed he was doing a bit of dealing.’
‘Have they got anything on him for dealing?’ asked Maguire.
‘No. And according to them they haven’t got the time or resources to follow up little people like Darren. They go after the big boys, and just wait for something to happen to the small fry.’
‘And it has,’ said Maguire thoughtfully, his professional mind slipping into gear, and with it the familiar stirring of interest. It was good to have a challenge. He had a gut instinct that this case would prove to be interesting. ‘Well, tell them to back off,’ he said. ‘This is our case. And who knows, if there are any big boys involved, maybe we’ll be able to give them some answers to their problems in the not too distant future.’
‘You’re thinking it is murder then,’ said Grayson, sounding excited. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘I can’t. But I’m as sure as I can be at this stage. So go and find out if he had any friends. And don’t be afraid to milk the drug squad for information, although don’t give anything away. Not until we’re good and ready.’
Grayson grinned. ‘As I said right at the beginning, it’s good to have something to get our teeth into.’
Maguire grinned back. ‘Push off,’ he said, not unkindly.
‘That’s no way to speak to your subordinates!’ A portly figure appeared at the side of the tarpaulin tent, and Phineas Merryweather, small, rotund, and rather pink in the face, puffed in. His breath rasped before him like little spurts of steam in the cold wet air.
‘God, Phineas, you sound like a bloody train,’ said Maguire. But he was glad to see him. ‘Take a look at what we’ve got here.’
Phineas bent down with some difficulty, wheezed more than ever, and peered beneath the van. ‘V is for very dead,’ he said.
‘I don’t need a forensic pathologist here to tell me that.’
There was no reply. Phineas needed all his breath to struggle into his protective clothing. With much grunting and puffing he succeeded and then lowered himself to the ground and crawled under the van. He made his initial examination then shouted for the van to be hauled away, before scrambling upright. ‘I’ll give him a good going over once I get him on the slab. But I doubt there’ll be a lot more I can tell you.’
‘So far, Phineas,’ said Adam, ‘you’ve told me absolutely nothing. All I’ve heard is a series of grunts.’
‘You’d grunt, my boy, if you were my age and size trying to examine a corpse under a van.’ He clasped the bulge that ballooned forth over his belted waist and sighed. ‘Wife’s put me on a diet, but I must say it doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘It never will, Phineas. You like your food and wine too much. Now, come on, tell me what you’ve surmised about Darren Evans here.’
‘That his name?’ said Phineas without interest, while struggling out of the protective suit. ‘Well, he is, or rather was, a drug addict, but you probably know that. And he’s dead.’
‘I know that as well, for God’s sake.’
‘Don’t be impatient, my dear boy. I was going to say he’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours, and it wasn’t an accident. Head’s too bashed about. So much so, in fact, that I doubt I’ll be able to draw definite conclusions as to the cause. But never mind, we’ll scrape him up and have a good go. It’s always amazing what you sometimes find when you’re picking about amidst the pieces. Turn over one little piece of flesh, and hey presto! A revelation.’
Adam closed his mind to the unsavoury image. ‘When can I have the report?’
‘On your desk first thing tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Lizzie slept badly that Friday night. Darren Evans had been murdered. She was certain of that, no matter what that supercilious Inspector Maguire might say. Keeping an open mind was one thing, but ignoring the blatantly obvious was ridiculous in the extreme. Yes, it was definitely murder, and that meant the murderer was somewhere out there in the darkness of Stibbington. Suddenly, the isolation of Silver Cottage, which had made it so attractive when she’d bought it in the autumn, became intimidating.
She felt alone and vulnerable, and found herself thinking of Carly, a student friend who now practised in the States. When she’d visited Carly, who also lived alone in a small village near Cape Cod, in an equally isolated house, she’d laughed at Carly’s insistence on keeping a gun in her bedside locker. Now she wished she had access to one. But even if she had possessed such a thing, leaving it in the bedside locker would be illegal; firearm laws in Britain were much tougher than those in America. Besides, there was another major disadvantage: she wouldn’t know how to fire the damned thing. So a gun was out of the question. Perhaps she ought to get a dog. A dog would be company. A dog would bark. But acquiring a dog in the middle of the night was also not the most practical of ideas. There was nothing for it but to keep the demon thoughts at bay.
But after tossing and turning for another hour, she finally went downstairs and got the heavy brass candlestick which stood in the hearth for ornament. Lying in bed with it beside her also proved impracticable; it was cold, hard, and dug into her ribs. But once carefully positioned by the side of the bed she felt more relaxed and safer. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that if anyone came in the night she would hit them first and ask questions afterwards.
When Saturday morning dawned she looked at the candlestick and felt slightly silly at being so panicky the night before, but she didn’t move it. It could stay there. Her insurance policy against any unwelcome visitors.
Wrapping a thick towelling robe around her she slipped her feet into a pair of huge hedgehog slippers. A silly present from Louise when she knew her mother was moving to the country. ‘Just to remind you that you’ll be living side by side with nature’, she’d said. Lizzie looked at them now and smiled. Then smiled again as she remembered that it was her Saturday off. In fact she was off duty for the whole weekend. It was her first chance to explore Stibbington since she’d taken up residence.
Outside, a wet and windy night had turned into a grey and dismal morning, although it had at least stopped raining. But the silence got on her nerves, which was absurd because she’d longed for peace and quiet, but now she wished there was someone around to talk to or even argue with, and that there was the roar of traffic in the background. She switched on the radio; the chatter of the newscaster’s voice was comforting.
After a breakfast of toast and coffee Lizzie decided to try out Stibbington Market. Everyone at the practice had assured her it was excellent and now, she reasoned, was as good a time as any to go.
The market at Stibbington ran the length of the High Street. The stalls stretched either side of the road, all the way from the top of the hill down to the quay by the marina at the bottom. Although it was a cold and windy winter’s morning it was crowded, and the first person Lizzie bumped into was Emmy Matthews.
‘How are you, dear?’ she said, lowering her voice confidentially. ‘Got over that nasty little experience we had last night? I thought about you. It’s very lonely out there in Deer Leap Lane. I do hope you weren’t too worried and were able to sleep.’
‘Yes. I slept perfectly, thank you,’ Lizzie lied.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Matthews continued. ‘As you know it’s very lonely where I live, and it’s next door to where Darren . . . well, enough said about that! I don’t want to say the word.’ Lizzie wondered which word she had in mind but didn’t inquire, but Mrs Matthews was unstoppable. ‘Anyway, thank goodness, I wasn’t on my own last night, nor will I be for the foreseeable future. I’ve got a lady guest until Christmas. And at Christmas I’ve got a family staying. So I’m all right.’
‘I’m so glad,’ said Lizzie edging a
way.
‘There she is over there. Mrs Smithson, my paying guest, I mean.’ Mrs Matthews peered nosily. ‘Whatever can she be shopping for? She doesn’t need to shop for anything. Not while she’s staying with me. I provide everything. Hello, Mrs Smithson.’ She waved energetically and called but the woman didn’t acknowledge her.
Lizzie realized that it was the woman on the train she’d accidentally trodden on. And she was still wearing the same suede shoes by the look of it. She walked awkwardly, which was hardly surprising. High heels and cobbles were not a happy combination. What women do in the name of vanity, thought Lizzie. She glanced down at her own feet, sensibly clad in sturdy walking shoes. No point in being vain, there was nobody she wanted to impress; besides, she didn’t fancy crippling herself on the cobbles. Mrs Matthews shouted again, but still the woman didn’t turn around. ‘She didn’t hear you,’ said Lizzie.
‘No, I suppose not.’ Emmy Matthews’ eyes darted around. ‘Oh, I must dash. There’s Marge Watson from Picklehurst over there. I must pop over and tell her about Darren Evans. She’ll want to know.’
She darted off leaving Lizzie to wander down between the market stalls in the wake of Mrs Smithson, who seemed to be looking at everything and chatting to stallholders. Looking but not actually buying. Lizzie bought half a dozen fresh free-range eggs – laid the day before or so the girl assured her – farmhouse butter, cream, some broccoli, apples and potatoes then discovered that her arms were nearly being wrenched out of their sockets by the weight of her shopping. She looked at the other women in the market, all scurrying about with their laden shopping trolleys. Maybe I should get one, she thought, and then immediately dismissed the idea. No, she had definitely not yet reached the stage of using a trolley, and she would rather dislocate both shoulders than be seen wheeling one.
Halfway down the High Street was a small delicatessen. Antonio’s Delicatessen, a permanent shop, not a market stall. It was packed with Italian goodies, and Lizzie succumbed and went in to buy a packet of pancetta and a lump of fresh parmesan. Now she had all the ingredients for a carbonara. It was only when she was inside the shop that she saw that Adam Maguire was being served.