by Angela Arney
Phineas Merryweather arrived looking robustly cheerful as ever, and waved at Maguire, who raised a hand in reply. The forensic photographer trailed along behind Phineas, looking anything but cheerful.
‘I can’t pronounce him dead,’ said Lizzie. ‘The body is too badly burned to be recognizable, and I didn’t investigate that closely. All I can say is that it is the body of an adult, weighing approximately sixty kilos, and I am unable to determine the sex.’
‘I was told that you thought it was Tarquin Girling.’ Maguire felt irritated. Did she have to be so pedantic?
‘I said that he was going to start clearing my garden this afternoon, and he said he would be potting out some plants in the greenhouse. That’s why I thought perhaps . . .’ her voice tailed away.
‘But you don’t know for certain whether he came or not.’
Lizzie shook her head, trying to obliterate a sense of guilt. It was her greenhouse, her ancient paraffin heater. And if it were Tarquin lying beneath the tarpaulin, it was her fault for not ensuring that the heater was safe. She should have checked it when she bought the paraffin. For surely it was the heater that had caused the fire. It must have exploded. ‘He said he would come, and I intended to be here to see him. But I got delayed with my visits and when I got back the fire had already taken hold.’
‘Thanks.’ Maguire made a move towards the tarpaulin. ‘I’d better go and see how Phineas and the photographer are getting on. You are free to go into the house now if you wish.’
Free to go into the house. His words shook Lizzie into a realization of the time. Everything, since she had arrived and seen the fire, had seemed to move with lightning speed and yet at the same time stand still. Now she was acutely aware that she was late for surgery. Her patients would be waiting. ‘I’ve got an evening clinic to do at the practice. I’m late already. Am I free to go back into Stibbington?’
‘Of course.’ Maguire nodded his assent and moved off across the tangled mass of dead vegetation in the garden. Lizzie stood watching him for a moment, then turned towards the drive and her car. As she turned she thought she saw a movement in the bushes at the side of the garden, the side where Tarquin had said that once there’d been a tennis court. The lights from the scene of the incident spilled over raggedly into that part of the garden, probing fingers of light into the darkness. She couldn’t be sure, because it was so indistinct, but Lizzie could have sworn she saw the shadowy figure of a man. But the figure faded into oblivion before she had the chance to reinforce her suspicion, leaving nothing but bushes and the hedgerow, matted with last summer’s tangled mass of Old Man’s Beard, waving slightly in the wind.
She walked back to the car trying to calm her jangling nerves. Imagination. Of course it was. She was overwrought. It was time to get back to the familiar world of the surgery, and the never-ending queue of patients with their reassuringly familiar ailments, most of which were never serious. It was as the central locking system of the car beeped and clicked the door open that she heard the distant sound of a motorbike in the adjoining lane. A chill ran up her spine but not for long. She gave herself a mental shake. What was the matter with her? Coincidence, of course it was. Plenty of people owned motorbikes in the Stibbington area. But it reminded her that she had forgotten to tell Adam Maguire about the motorcyclist riding away from the scene of Darren’s death. She’d tell him tomorrow when she gave her statement.
Emmy Matthews was agitated. She made herself a cup of camomile tea to sooth her nerves, and sat down in her green and white kitchen to drink it. Normally, camomile tea worked wonders for both her indigestion and her state of mind. And if that failed, the kitchen, all twenty thousand pounds of the best matching green coloured laminate that money could buy, and which had only been installed six months ago, gave her a smug satisfaction. Not that she was usually too worried about anything. Despite her continual visits to the doctor complaining of her nerves, Emmy Matthews, as Dick Jamieson often observed, had nerves of steel and the hide of a rhinoceros. But tonight those nerves were distinctly frayed. And it was her guest, Mrs Smithson, who’d done the fraying.
Emmy always prided herself on not being a nosy landlady. Not like some of the guest house landladies in Stibbington, tut-tutting when a couple shared a room and gave different names, but taking the money just the same. Emmy always called a spade a spade and was not afraid to say so.
‘What people get up to in their private moments is no business of mine,’ she told the other landladies rather primly. There was friendly competition between them as they compared their best and worst guests. ‘And these days hardly anybody is married,’ said Emmy. ‘Even families with several children have parents who are not married. Who am I to pass comment? And what I see when I’m cleaning the rooms is no business of mine, no matter how weird it might be.’
Weird was one thing. Emmy had seen sexual aids that practically gave her hair a spontaneous permanent wave. She had never mentioned those to her fellow landladies, not wanting anyone to think she ran a ‘loose’ establishment, and besides, as she was so fond of saying, it was none of her business. But what was her business? Was something suspicious her business? Especially when she couldn’t be really certain what she had seen?
The problem had arisen with the cleaning of Mrs Smithson’s room. Finally, on Monday afternoon, Emmy lost patience. It was all right waiting to be given permission, but pride would not allow her to let a guest’s room go uncleaned for more than four days. Mrs Smithson had been in residence since Thursday evening; it was now Monday afternoon, and time the room had a good ‘do through’ to use Emmy’s favourite expression.
It was dark; nearly five o’clock by the time Emmy was nearly finished. The sheets had been changed, the bed remade, the bathroom cleaned with the latest cleaner, which killed, cleaned, and sparkled all in one go. And not until her own distorted reflection looked back at her from the bathroom taps and shower head was she satisfied.
She was just about to leave the room when she remembered she hadn’t polished the top of the white melamine wardrobe. It had a fancy gilt edged scroll running around the top which left a hollow in the middle. The hollow collected dust. Or it would have done if Emmy ever allowed it to, which she never did.
Clambering on to a chair she reached into the hollow, tin of polish in one hand and duster in the other, only to find a large cardboard box wedged on the top. Lifting it out and climbing down, holding the box with both hands, proved to be difficult, and just as her foot touched the floor, the door to the room opened, and in strode Mrs Smithson.
Emmy fell flat on her face. The box shot across the room, the lid flying off in the process. To her amazement the box was full of wigs, each one identical. There was also a small plastic packet, which was full of brass colour things, which at first she thought were bullets, but must have been packets of hairgrips. But she only had a fleeting glance so she couldn’t be sure. Mrs Smithson slammed the lid back on the box before she had a chance to take a closer look. Then she turned back to Emmy, who was still on the floor, with an expression of fury on her face, which made her shiver.
‘How dare you snoop in my room.’ Mrs Smithson’s voice was low, and there was no disguising the menace in it. Emmy was too frightened to think. She tried to scrabble across the floor towards the door on her hands and knees but Mrs Smithson stood in her way. ‘How dare you pry amongst my things,’ she said, towering above her.
‘I wasn’t prying,’ Emmy gasped. ‘I came in to clean. I was polishing the top of the wardrobe. You made me jump and I dropped the box.’ She scrambled to her feet intending to make a speedy exit but Mrs Smithson barred her way again.
‘I don’t want my private possessions gossiped about.’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry I saw your wigs if you didn’t want me to.’ The words tumbled one over the other in her terror. ‘Lot’s of women wear wigs, it’s nothing—’
‘Get out!’ The words were spat at her.
Emmy scuttled in a sideways crab-like movement to
reach the door without having to go too near her frightening guest. ‘Yes, I won’t clean again. Not if you don’t want me to.’ She heard her voice, breathless, squeaky, and so faint she doubted that Mrs Smithson even heard her.
With a sharp movement, which nearly caused Emmy to have a heart attack there and then, Mrs Smithson picked up the tin of polish and the duster and threw them after Emmy.
‘Take your bloody polish with you.’
The tin of polish hit the wall opposite, ricocheting back into Emmy. She couldn’t get out fast enough, only stopping momentarily to pick up the polish and the duster. She was hardly through the door when it slammed shut behind her leaving her trembling in the corridor outside.
Now she sat sipping her camomile tea, and wondered whether she ought to ring the police. After all, ordinary women didn’t carry bullets about with them, and there had been a murder recently. A shooting, in fact. And then the next moment she told herself that the bullets were a product of her overwrought imagination. She couldn’t be sure of anything and Mrs Smithson must need a lot of grips to cope with all those wigs. Bullets were just too far-fetched. It must have been hairgrips. She had just convinced herself that this was the most likely explanation when there was a knock on the door.
It was Mrs Smithson. All smiles and apologetic. ‘I must apologize for my unforgivable behaviour,’ she said. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit edgy lately. My book hasn’t been going at all well.’
If that’s what writing a book does to you, thought Emmy grimly, then it’s best left well alone. Waste of time, anyway. How many people had time to read a book? She certainly didn’t. Magazines with plenty of pictures was what she liked. But she took the proffered peace offering and said. ‘That’s all right. It was my fault too. I should have asked you first, not gone in and done it while you were out.’
‘No, no. It’s my fault.’ Mrs Smithson was insistent. ‘I shouldn’t have been so difficult. Please go in and clean every day, if you wish. But I’d be glad if you didn’t disturb my papers.’
‘Of course not,’ said Emmy, feeling an immense sense of relief. She had been worrying about nothing. ‘Would you like a cup of camomile tea? I always find it very soothing. It’s supposed to be good for the nerves.’
‘I’d love one.’ Mrs Smithson perched herself rather awkwardly on one of the shiny green-topped stools beside the breakfast bar. ‘Anything that would sooth the nerves would do me good.’ She watched Emmy plug the kettle in and get out another cup and a camomile tea bag, then said, ‘That’s why I wear the wigs, you know. Nerves.’
‘Oh! Really?’ Emmy wasn’t sure she saw the connection.
‘Yes. I suffer from alopecia. A baldness caused by a nervous condition. So it’s either wear wigs or a headscarf. I prefer wigs. But I don’t like people to know. I know it’s silly pride, but I can’t help it.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ said Emmy, pouring hot water onto the tea bag. She settled herself comfortably opposite Mrs Smithson, ready for a cosy, woman-to-woman, chat. She patted her own rigidly permed and lacquered hair. A visit to Snippets once a week ensured that never a hair was out of place. A brush and comb were hardly necessary, just a push in with the fingers was all that was required. ‘It must be terrible to have to wear wigs all the time,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. I’ll never breathe a word to anyone.’
How Lizzie got through that evening’s surgery she never knew. To each patient their ailment, no matter how trivial, was of immense importance to them. She knew this and tried to concentrate on the sore throats, painful knees, chesty coughs, and other winter maladies. But all the time she was waiting for news, hoping against hope that the body would not be identified as that of Tarquin Girling.
Her worst fears began to materialize towards the end of surgery, just before the last two patients were to be seen.
Tara Murphy knocked on her door and came in. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said in her most efficient, surgery receptionist manner, ‘but I’ve got Mrs Girling on the phone. She says is Tarquin still working at your place? Because if he is, he should hurry up and come home with the fish and chips he promised. She and Wayne are waiting for their supper.’
Lizzie shook her head. The only people she had mentioned the fire to were Dick and Peter, the two partners present that evening; Stephen still being absent due to the turbulence of his large intestine. ‘Tell Mrs Girling that he is not at my house, and that I have no idea where he might be.’ For a moment she toyed with the idea of suggesting Mrs Girling might ring the police, but then thought better of it. No need to raise the alarm and cause distress unnecessarily. Far better to wait until a positive identification had been made.
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Tara pertly. ‘I thought she had a cheek ringing anyway. I nearly didn’t ask you.’
‘You were right to ask. It’s only natural for a mother to worry about her children.’
‘He isn’t a child,’ said Tara. ‘He’s twenty-seven if he’s a day. Practically thirty.’ Her tone implied that being practically thirty was having one foot in the grave. Wonder what she thinks about being over forty, thought Lizzie wryly, buzzing for the next patient to come in.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mrs Girling didn’t ask Adam Maguire into the house when he arrived that Monday evening. She stood, one hand on the thin lurcher, the other holding her small son’s hand. The child was coughing, had a runny nose, and was clinging hold of her hand and apron as if his life depended on it. All three regarded him apprehensively.
Maguire took the initiative. ‘I think I’d better come in, and you’d better sit down, Mrs Girling,’ he said gently.
This was something he hated doing. There was no easy way to deal with violent death, accidental or otherwise. As a young policeman he’d thought he’d get used to seeing the look on people’s faces when they were told that someone close to them would not be coming home. But the years had taught him otherwise. The only constant emotion was his feeling of helpless ineffectuality. Every single person, every family, reacted differently. Some screamed wild cries of disbelief. The grief of others was quieter, but so raw it was almost tangible; others greeted the news with expressionless stony silence. The silence of the grave as Steve Grayson had once aptly put it. And as a policeman, when it was murder as it was in this case, it was his duty to try to interpret both the cries and the silences. What did it all mean? Did they know why it had happened? Were they involved in any way?
The grisly scene at the greenhouse had left him feeling physically exhausted. There was no doubt that the body was Tarquin Girling, and, according to Phineas, no doubt that he’d been murdered. He’d been wearing an identity bracelet, and that combined with the dental records – there were only two dentists in Stibbington and Phineas had checked with them both immediately – had given positive identification. Events were pressing in on him with claustrophobic speed. Two murders in less than a week. A new investigation, new suspects, if they were lucky. The whole slow process to be set in motion all over again. If he wasn’t careful he’d have the upper echelons moving in from County Headquarters, taking over the case, inferring that he was incapable of dealing with it. I’m getting too old for this job, he thought, wearily. And there was Tess. He still hadn’t got home. She was still waiting.
Without a word Mrs Girling led the way into the kitchen, sat the child on a small chair near the kitchen range, then sat herself on a wooden chair by the side of the table. ‘Well?’ she demanded.
She didn’t offer him a chair but Maguire took one and sat on it anyway, not wanting to appear a figure of authority by towering over the woman. ‘I’ve come about your son, Tarquin,’ he said.
‘He’s late.’ The child whined nasally. ‘He said he’d bring us in fish and chips and I’m hungry.’
‘What about Tarquin?’ said Mrs Girling.
‘I’m afraid he’s not coming in with the fish and chips,’ said Maguire.
Lizzie went back to Silver Cottage with mixed feelings. Both Dick and Peter had offered to p
ut her up for the night, but Lizzie had said no.
‘I’ve got to go back at some time,’ she’d said, ‘unless I up sticks and move out of the house altogether, and I’ve no intention of doing that. So tonight is as good a night as any. I’ve got to get used to the fact that a man died in the grounds of my property. There’s no point in being frightened. Dead people can’t harm the living.’
Dick Jamieson wasn’t happy, but Lizzie was adamant.
When she arrived all was silent, but flapping blue and white tape still cut her house off from the outside world. A solitary policeman sat on guard in a police van. She parked the Alfa by the side of the garage and approached the van.
‘Am I allowed in?’ she asked.
The policeman unfolded his limbs; he was exceptionally tall, and emerged from the van touching his cap respectfully. She saw it was Kevin Harrison. Poor boy, he seemed to be permanently on duty at ghastly scenes. ‘Yes, Dr Browne, you are allowed in,’ he said. ‘But Chief Inspector Maguire asked that you do not go into the remains of the greenhouse. Just in case forensics need to come back.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of going there.’ Lizzie shuddered. ‘And I can tell you this. As soon as I have the all clear from the police I shall have the place razed to the ground. There’ll be no new greenhouse or shed. I shall have a rose garden or something. Anything to make me forget what happened here.’
Kevin nodded sympathetically. ‘I think you’re very brave. My mum wouldn’t stay on alone in a house after a murder.’
Lizzie caught her breath, and put her black bag down with a heavy thump beside the car. She found she was trembling, but tried to keep her voice steady. ‘A murder? Did you say a murder? I thought it was an accident. I thought the stove must have exploded.’
Kevin Harrison looked worried. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but no one said not to.’
‘Well, go on, now you’ve started,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m entitled to know. It happened on my property.’