by Angela Arney
Tarquin was silent. He could see that Mr Harris was disappointed when he paid for the pasty and left without saying another word. But he couldn’t stay and talk. The news that the Walshes had returned after so many years was unexpected, but he could cope with that. Would have to cope with it if they were going to be permanent residents. But the chance of meeting up with Niall again was a different matter. If he’d been called upon to give a definition of what he was feeling at that moment, he could not have formed any coherent answer, so muddled and confused were his feelings. And Niall qualified as a solicitor! Well, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised at that. Niall had always applied his mind to whatever he’d undertaken, and he’d always been clever. So Niall was a success. That wasn’t so surprising either. But Niall happily married and with a child of his own, a son, his own flesh and blood. That was hard to think about. Especially when compared to the barren emptiness of his own life. No job, no money, no prospects and no family of his own, unless he counted his mother and Wayne, which he didn’t most of the time. Sometimes they felt as alien to him as the rest of the world. Ten years since he’d seen Niall. To Tarquin it seemed a lifetime. He felt guilty, and wondered if Niall felt the same. Probably not, he decided. Not now, because his life had moved on. It must be easy to forget the past in another place surrounded by different people. Whereas I, thought Tarquin morosely, am still in the same damned place, surrounded by the same damned people and yet nothing is really the same. At this point he stopped thinking because, as usual when he did think, he started going round and round in circles and getting nowhere.
He moved automatically, got into his car, and drove off, feeling more alone than ever. Alone and useless, and he wished Mr Harris hadn’t told him about the Walshes.
He drove up the hill and out of Stibbington until Silver Cottage loomed into view through the trees. Despite trying not to, he was still thinking of Niall, and he saw for a brief moment Silver Cottage as it had once been in summer, surrounded by trees in translucent green leaf, the garden bright with flowers, and the lawn, freshly mown, the grass like crushed green velvet. Suddenly his feeling of gloom began to lift. Here was something he could do. He could regenerate this garden. Not for Dr Browne, although she was employing him, but for himself, because once he had been happy here. He could live again through the garden. He would recreate it exactly as it had been all those years before.
As Tarquin unloaded the boxes of plants and his garden tools, he began to hum Beethoven’s Pastoral, one of his favourite pieces. It seemed appropriate and cheered him.
He set the boxes on the wooden benches in the greenhouse. The plants needed pricking out, but that would have to be done later in the day. First thing was to get the old paraffin heating system working. Dr Browne, true to her word, had left a can of paraffin in the shed, and he started work. To his surprise it didn’t take long. Once he’d given the heater a thorough clean and a new wick then filled it with paraffin, it lit first time. He sat back on his heels and breathed in the smell of the burning oil, feeling the air move with the first tentative stirring of heat in the long-disused greenhouse. He was happy here in the musty house of glass, shut away from the world outside. The world to which he had no wish to belong.
The glass insulated him from sound. He couldn’t hear the passing traffic, and he didn’t hear the sound of footsteps along the quarry tiles set in the lawn, stepping stones leading down the garden to the greenhouse. The faint click of the door opening caught his attention. He stood up. Turned around. Caught his breath. Made as if to move. But too late. The bullet hit him square between the eyes. For one second he saw a blinding flash of brilliant white. Then darkness. Without a sound he fell backwards, as the door to the green house clicked shut.
The newly filled paraffin heater toppled beneath the weight of his body as he fell, spilling its load of fuel around his inert form and spreading across the concrete floor. For a few moments all remained silent, then with a sudden ‘woof’ fire engulfed the greenhouse. Golden flames, matching the gold of Tarquin’s hair, caressed each strand in turn before consuming it. Within minutes the silent figure on the floor became a glowing torch.
The dead leaves and branches of the trees and bushes in the farthest reaches of the darkening garden leapt into flickering life as the fire gained momentum. Tarquin lay at its centre, a still, blackened effigy, unable to see the ghastly beauty of the fire. For him, all was merciful darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
The same Monday morning that Tarquin had set off for Brockett Hall, Niall Walsh was being regarded with increasing exasperation by his wife Christina.
‘Niall, I really don’t see what you’ve got against going to Stibbington for Christmas.’ She wiped a dribble of rusk from baby Tom’s chin. ‘Think about me for a change. It will be lovely to leave London. I’ve been looking forward to it. No cooking, no housework, only Tom to look after. And, anyway,’ she concluded in a tone of voice that Niall knew meant she had made up her mind, ‘it’s really too late to cancel now. Your parents want us to go.’
Niall felt tired. Life seemed to be one continual battle lately. No sooner than he’d overcome one hurdle than another presented itself. He was tired, dispirited, and frightened, which was stupid, because he had nothing to fear. He could say no. But that was another problem. He couldn’t, not really. He’d never been good at decisions. And now, inexorably, against his will, he was being drawn back to the place he’d thought he would never see again.
Sometimes he thought it was a conspiracy by Christina and his parents to destroy him. But that was being ridiculous. He knew he had to rein in such panicky thoughts. Why should they want to destroy him? The answer, of course, was that they did not. It was just his own pathetic fear, which was wreaking havoc with his peace of mind. A peace that had been forged with painstaking care but which, despite all his efforts, still remained a fragile substance. In his mind’s eye he could see it, his own life, lying around him, like so many shards of a broken eggshell. He watched Christina fussing over Tom. She wanted an answer. He had to give it.
‘I don’t want to go to Stibbington,’ he said, knowing he sounded childish and petulant, but unable to think of anything else to say. ‘I don’t want to stay in that cheap little guest house down by the hard.’
‘It’s not that cheap, for God’s sake, and your parents wouldn’t have chosen it for us if it were bad. Goodness knows they’re fussy enough.’ Christina’s temper, kept in check so far, now flared. She regarded her husband with undisguised fury. ‘Really, Niall, I don’t know what’s got into you recently. We never do anything I want to do. Sometimes I think you wish you’d never married me.’
Niall looked out of the window of their London house, a Georgian town house in Primrose Hill, overlooking the actual hill itself. Four storeys including the basement with a walled garden to the front and rear. It had cost a fortune, and the mortgage repayments made Niall shudder every time he looked at the bank statement. But he’d bought the house to please Christina, although God knows why I ever needed to do that, he thought moodily. It hasn’t pleased her. She’s never pleased.
He said, ‘How can you say that? I’ve been as good a husband as I know how.’
Christina finished giving a reluctant Tom his breakfast. It had been a struggle as the baby was more interested in turning his dish upside down and banging the spoon loudly on the tray of his high chair than eating. ‘I know you have,’ she said, sounding more conciliatory. Suddenly she turned to look at Niall. ‘But sometimes I feel that you don’t like me. That you are keeping your distance.’ Niall didn’t answer, so she continued. ‘And if you really want to know, although I don’t suppose you do, I’ve felt that way ever since we’ve been married.’
Niall felt himself flushing guiltily. He was surprised and more than a little disconcerted. He hadn’t realized that Christina was so perceptive. He’d always prided himself on being the perfect husband. He was considerate and affectionate, or as affectionate as he knew how to be to someone he di
dn’t truly love. But what was true love? Once he’d discovered a week or so after their marriage that he didn’t love Christina, at least not in the way she wanted, he’d given up trying to fathom out that puzzle. Instead he’d concentrated on providing all the outward trappings necessary for a successful young couple.
‘I’ve given you everything you’ve ever wanted,’ he said quietly, not wanting another quarrel, which seemed to erupt with increasing frequency these days. ‘We have this house. We have a lovely son. What else do you want?’
‘You could let me come close to that part of yourself you always withhold,’ said Christina. ‘I want to feel close to you. To know what you are really thinking sometimes.’
Niall turned away. An abrupt movement of abhorrence. Why were some people so demanding? The thought made him feel physically sick. His father was the same, always demanding that he fit into the mould he designed for him, never seeing that he didn’t fit, would never fit. It was his idea that they go to Stibbington, he knew it was. His mother was different; he felt an affinity with her, they were alike in many ways. Her life hadn’t been easy. He remembered her saying once that things would have been so different if she’d been free. At the time he’d wondered what she’d meant. Later he thought he knew, but had never dared ask. There was a barrier of reticence ingrained into the Walsh family. No one ever articulated their thoughts on personal matters. Those things were hugged close to one’s self, a burden too heavy ever to be released for a moment. He thought of his wife and felt bitter. Christina was never content to take what he could give, was always demanding more.
But he’d had love and friendship once. Known that it was possible to be in tune with someone and yet at the same time be totally independent. Exist side by side. Have parallel but separate lives, and yet remain in complete harmony. Then he thought of his life back in Stibbington. Not something he had allowed himself to do for years. If they went back to Stibbington he might meet Tarquin again if he was still living there. He wondered what he was doing now. What would they say to each other after all this time? Would the tragedy they had survived, but which had left a ghastly mountain of guilt, be insurmountable? The guilt. He shivered. It was always there. A dark shadow in his life, day and night, and would be until he drew his final breath. He wondered if it were the same for the others. Did they battle to keep it at bay all the time? But now there was something else. Supposing he did meet Tarquin again, or the others, would he then be able to continue with his present life? Questions, questions, questions. So many questions. But not one single answer.
He turned and walked towards the door. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘You always have,’ said Christina bitterly. ‘You’ve never got time for Tom and me. Maybe I should go down to Stibbington without you.’
Niall knew he would eventually lose the battle, he always did, and the knowledge caused him to lose his temper. ‘This is what it’s all about isn’t it,’ he shouted, forgetting that he hadn’t wanted an argument. ‘All this deep, pseudo-psycho analytical stuff, which you glean from women’s magazines, about not being able to get close to me, is a load of rubbish. What you really mean is you want to go to Stibbington for a holiday, rather than stay in your own beautiful house and have Christmas here. Well, all right. We’ll go to Stibbington. We’ll stay in the bloody House by the Hard with that horror of a Matthews woman; we’ll sit through long and boring meals with my parents, and it will probably piss with rain all the time and Tom will catch a cold.’
He flung himself out of the room, slamming the door behind him with such force that the whole house reverberated. He knew Christina would be smiling, pleased that she had at last precipitated him into giving her an answer.
Christina was smiling. Left alone, she disentangled Tom from his reins, and carried him over to the window. Together they looked out on to the park. Children were flying kites, wrapped up like tiny Siberian peasants against the bitter cold wind. She kissed Tom on the side of his small pink cheek. ‘We’re going to Stibbington tomorrow for the whole of Christmas,’ she said, enjoying her small victory. ‘And Daddy will enjoy it. Even if it kills him.’
Then she phoned Louise Browne and made arrangements to meet her when they’d both be down in Stibbington for Christmas.
Adam Maguire and Steve Grayson saw Tarquin Girling leaving Brockett Hall as they arrived. ‘Tarquin,’ muttered Steve. ‘God knows why his mother gave him such an outlandish name, and what’s he doing prowling around here?’
‘Huh! The Brockett-Smythes seem to keep peculiar company, and they probably like the name! But we’ll ask later, when it’s appropriate.’
Steve grinned. ‘Is that a polite way of telling me to keep my mouth shut, sir?’ he said.
‘Got it in one,’ said Maguire. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey, as the saying goes.’
‘Why have we come to see the major? And what or who do you think we might catch? You don’t think the major has anything to do with the murder, do you?’
Maguire shook his head, but in puzzlement rather than in a gesture of affirmation. ‘All questions, Steve, to which there appear to be no satisfactory answers. But we’ll stick with Darren’s funeral for starters, and see where that leads. We’re feeling our way in the dark here. At the moment we’ve got absolutely nothing positive to go on. No forensic links with anyone, no real clues. Nothing.’
Steve pulled the car to a crunching halt in the sodden wet gravel in front of Brockett Hall. ‘Well, we wanted an exciting case. And we’ve got one.’
‘It will only be exciting when we get something that leads us somewhere. Unsolved crimes are not exciting. Unless you can call getting the top brass coming down on you like a ton of bricks exciting,’ growled Maguire. ‘And that’s what will be happening if we don’t start coming up with something soon.’ He was still feeling irritable and very weary. Sitting in the car and thinking had done no good at all; not one single spark of inspiration had come. Maybe he should let Steve Grayson have his way, and blurt out the first questions that popped into his young head. One thing Maguire was certain of, and that was that he didn’t know where to start with the Brockett-Smythes. So much for the subconscious intuition of a detective honed to a fine skill after years of experience, he thought morosely. This morning he would have given his eye teeth for a spark of such divine inspiration.
It was just after one o’clock in the afternoon when Lizzie pulled the Alfa Romeo out of her slot in the Honeywell Practice car park. Late again, she thought, shoving the car into gear and speeding off down the lane that joined the main road towards Stibbington. If she didn’t get a move on she’d never be in time to go back to the cottage before it was time to start evening surgery again. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that, apart from a cup of Tara’s unpalatable coffee and a biscuit, she’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. Life in the country was proving to be just as hectic, if not more so, than life in London.
Her mobile rang. It was Louise. ‘Hi.’ She sounded cheerful. She always did. ‘I’m back from Valencia. Just thought I’d ring and see how you are.’
‘I’m fine.’ As Lizzie had just begun the approach to Stibbington High Street she pulled into a parking bay by the side of the main post office. ‘Look, I’m out on my visits, it’s just luck that I’ve found somewhere to park so that I can speak to you. If I’d been in one of the lanes around here I’d never have found anywhere.’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Louise sounded exasperated. ‘I know you’re not supposed to talk on the phone when driving. But everyone does.’
‘Not everyone,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘I’m new here, and doing my best to appear a pillar of the establishment. I have to set an example. Now, why have you rung? What do you want?’ She loved her daughter dearly but recognized her for the human being she truly was, sometimes despairing of the fact that she always seemed to take, rarely giving back. Although, to be fair, she had to admit that every now and then she astounded her with acts of generosity that left her speechless. Her unwavering devotio
n to both herself and Mike when they’d announced they were splitting up had made her feel very humble. True, she and Louise had argued a little about where she should go and where she should live, but once Lizzie had made the decision Louise had been one hundred per cent behind her. Her support had made the divorce that much more bearable, and she supposed Mike must feel the same way. Not that they’d ever discussed it. Their relationship had disintegrated to the extent that nothing could be discussed by the time they decided to split. Or to be more precise, by the time Mike had decided to leave.
‘Well . . .’ Louise slid into a wheedling tone. Lizzie smiled, held her breath, and waited for the request. ‘Can I come down tomorrow? The gallery has given me some extra time off, and a married friend of mine, Christina, is going down to Stibbington with her husband for Christmas. They’re going down early, and she’s asked me to see her tomorrow evening. This would suit me fine, because I could see you and her. By the way, I’m going skiing at Christmas. I did tell you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did. And there’s no need to feel guilty about going away at Christmas. I shall enjoy having a little time off on my own, and having the chance to sort the house out. I’ll be all right.’
‘I know you will. But the important thing is can I come down tomorrow?’
‘Of course you can come. But is that all? You mean you don’t want me to lend you any money for your skiing holiday?’
‘Mother! Do I ever ask you for money?’