Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  Kevin hesitated, then said, ‘Apparently he was shot before the fire started. And the bullet was from the same gun as the one which killed Darren Evans.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lizzie, but she didn’t. The whole thing was assuming nightmare proportions. Why would two individuals be shot in a sleepy backwater like Stibbington? It didn’t make sense. It was such a quiet place.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Kevin echoing her thoughts. ‘I don’t know who this last victim was, but Darren Evans was a nonentity. Why would anyone kill him? He was hardly worth killing.’

  Lizzie felt duty bound to stand up for Darren. ‘All human life is always worth something,’ she said.

  ‘I know. I didn’t mean it like that.’ He shuffled about in the gravel of the path uncomfortably. ‘What I meant was, well, why? Who would think . . . well! I mean to say. This isn’t London or LA.’

  ‘No. But if the crime figures go on at this rate Stibbington will soon be on a par with those cities,’ said Lizzie sharply. It is important, she told herself, to keep a sense of balance, of equilibrium, and put things into their proper perspective. The police would solve the murders soon. She said as much to Kevin, who was now slapping his arms over his chest, and hopping from one boot to the other. An indication, she thought, that he would prefer to get back into the van. It had turned very cold.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be solved,’ he said, climbing back into the van. ‘Probably turn out to be the work of a madman on the loose,’ he added cheerfully, slamming the van door shut.

  Hardly the kind of remark to inspire confidence, reflected Lizzie, who’d been thinking along the same lines. She wished the darkness wasn’t quite so dense and black. She found the thought of someone lurking about with a gun unnerving. Picking up her black bag, she started for the cottage, then remembering her laptop and the bag of food from Antonio’s went back to the car. After retrieving them, she got herself and her luggage into the house. The first thing she did was switch on all the lights. Somehow the blazing lights were reassuring. Then she decided that a large malt whisky was in order, reasoning that should the murderer come back and shoot her she might as well die happy. But before a drop of the malt had passed her lips a sweep of headlights announced the arrival of another car.

  The two of them were finishing up in the office. No point in hanging around now; there was nothing they could usefully do until the post-mortem results came through and Grayson was anxious to get home. But he felt he had to offer to visit Dr Browne. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘she’ll never be there. Not after the murder.’

  ‘She doesn’t know it is murder yet,’ Maguire replied. ‘She thinks it was an accident.’

  ‘Murder, accident. Someone has been killed at her place. It’s enough to frighten any woman off. But I’ll go over and see if she’s there if you like.’

  ‘No, I’ll go. Silver Cottage is more in my direction than yours.’

  Maguire was not surprised to find her at home. He guessed that she would be nervous – who wouldn’t after finding a corpse on one’s property – but he also guessed that the gritty single-mindedness he suspected she possessed would make her determined to stand her ground. Lizzie Browne was not the type to be frightened away, although even she, mused Maguire, might be more than a little perturbed at the thought of a serial killer on the loose. Well, he corrected his own thoughts, a potential serial killer. Two murders by the same gun, inevitably meant the same person, and two murders in such quick succession was moving into serial type territory. Once the news got out the media would start a clamorous public demand that the killer be found. Such pressure, he knew from experience, hampered police efforts. It got in the way of the cool detachment needed to look at all the evidence, and tended to make rational decisions difficult. But he was keeping his fingers crossed on that score. At the moment the media were obsessed with unearthing sexual and financial improprieties of various cabinet ministers. And long may it go on, thought Maguire. The more dirt they discover in Westminster, the less notice anyone will take of what is going on in Stibbington.

  When he arrived he stopped and spoke to Kevin Harrison. ‘When do you finish?’ Tess, who he’d picked up on the way, rustled about in the undergrowth at the side of the drive pursuing elusive scents.

  ‘Ten o’clock, sir. Someone from Southampton’s coming out to relieve me. We’ve run out of man hours at Stibbington.’

  ‘I’m going in to talk to Dr Browne. I’ll be some time. Keep your eyes peeled. It’s very unlikely that the murderer will return to the scene of the crime, but it’s not unknown.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kevin surreptitiously slid the book he’d been reading down between the two front seats.

  But Maguire had already seen the manual. ‘I know you’re studying for your exams, but if, while reading, someone slips past you and murders me and the local doctor, I doubt that you’d get promoted no matter how good your results!’ Maguire called Tess and walked towards the front door. He noted all the lights blazing and guessed the reasoning behind it.

  Lizzie pre-empted his knock and opened the door. ‘I already know it was murder. He,’ she nodded towards the police van, ‘told me. But not who it was.’

  Tess pushed her way past Maguire and made straight for the kitchen and the rag mat in front of the boiler. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘As your dog seems to have decided to visit me it’s a little difficult to keep you standing on the doorstep. You’d better come in as well.’ Lizzie indicated the route followed by Tess and followed Maguire through the narrow hall into the warmth of the kitchen where Tess was already snoring. Lizzie saw Maguire eyeing the generous tumbler of malt on the kitchen table. ‘Laphroaig,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘Well,’ said Maguire slowly, ‘I suppose I am off duty.’

  ‘Enough said.’ Lizzie poured another whisky and handed it to Maguire.

  They both sipped slowly, Maguire savouring the fiery, peaty liquid. It was a long time since he’d had good malt. Mrs Clackett did his shopping, and always bought whatever happened to be on offer. To her whisky was whisky and the cheaper the better. He felt himself relaxing in the warmth. It was a long time since he’d sat in a warm kitchen. There was a lot to be said for having the central heating boiler in the kitchen. It was also pleasant to be sitting in a room that contained another human being instead of being alone with Tess. It seemed to him that the atmosphere was friendly. He looked across at Lizzie. She was watching him seriously over the top of her glass and he remembered why he had come. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that the body has been identified as that of Tarquin Girling.’

  Lizzie’s hand trembled slightly, but her voice was steady. ‘So he did come here. And the murderer found him. Have you told his mother?’

  Maguire sighed at the memory. ‘Yes, I have. And I’ve had her house and garden searched by forensics. She was not co-operative.’

  ‘How could you expect her to be? What woman would be co-operative, as you put it, after just being told that her son had been murdered? She must be terribly upset.’

  Maguire thought about Mrs Girling’s impassive face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re wrong. She wasn’t upset. In a strange way I felt she was almost relieved. It was as if a secret guilt had been lifted from her shoulders. She said the strangest thing. She told me that she’d lost Tarquin years ago.’

  Lizzie frowned. ‘What did she mean?’

  Maguire shook his head. Sometimes he wished he lived and worked in a metropolis, where people were anonymous. Where everyone had secrets but where none of them were that important because there were so many. Secrets ceased to matter when nobody knew anybody else. Here, in Stibbington, it was different. Secrets were common knowledge to the privileged few; the local residents whose families had inhabited the place for generations. But that knowledge was closely guarded against newcomers like him. The infuriating part of it was that most of the people in authority in Stibbington – the police, the doctors, even most of the town councillors – had only
lived in the area since the late 1980s when the town had started expanding. Life before that was a closed book to most of them, himself included.

  ‘I don’t know what she meant. I thought for a moment that she was going to tell me, but then she clammed up.’ He shrugged his shoulders and took another swallow of the whisky. ‘It’s probably not relevant. Some family quarrel, I expect.’

  Lizzie remembered she had intended to look up the existence of a Mr Girling but the first murder had driven it out of her head. ‘Is there a Mr Girling? And if so, what did he say?’

  Maguire shook his head. ‘There’s no Mr Girling. She’s fended for herself for years. Never been married, as far as I know. Both her children have different fathers. A bit of a goer when she was younger, apparently, though you’d never think it now.’

  Lizzie was silent for a moment, then leaned across the table towards Maguire. ‘The real question is, why Tarquin?’ she said. ‘And before that, why Darren? What possible connection can these two young men, dropouts both of them, have with each other?’

  It was something Maguire had been puzzling over himself and then forensics had found a link. The awkward thing was that it had happened in Lizzie’s greenhouse and therefore linked her to the murders as well. He didn’t relish having to quiz her, but it had to be done, and although he cursed the job, which made it necessary to interrogate people, it was the name of the game. Maybe, he thought ruefully, that was why Gilbert and Sullivan had written the song A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One.

  ‘If I knew the answer to that I might be nearer to solving the crimes.’ He looked at Lizzie before saying, ‘But there is a link of some sort. One that you might be able to help me with.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. The link is cannabis. Darren Evans had it in his house, and substantial remains of plants were found in the ashes of your greenhouse.’

  ‘In my greenhouse?’ Her voice rose, sounding indignant.

  Maguire felt the relaxed atmosphere evaporating. ‘I’m afraid so. And I have to ask you this. Have you any idea of how the plants came to be there?’

  ‘Of course not. They must have been put there by Tarquin.’

  That must indeed be the case. Common sense told Maguire so. The woman before him did not seem the type to smoke illicit substances. But he had to pursue the questioning nonetheless. ‘There was nothing in his house. Not a single plant. We searched the whole place. House and garden. And, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to allow the forensics team in here tomorrow morning. We need to search Silver Cottage as well.’

  ‘Search wherever you want. You can search now if you want. You won’t find any cannabis here.’

  He was relieved. She hadn’t flown off the handle, which was what he’d expected. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry to have to do it, but we cannot leave any stone unturned. But no need to disturb you now; I’ll send Grayson over in the morning.’

  Lizzie put her elbows on the table and held the half-empty tumbler between her two hands. ‘Tarquin did ask my permission to put some of his own plants in the greenhouse,’ she said. ‘I, of course, said yes. Why not? I had no plants of my own. I didn’t intend to use the space. However, I must admit the thought that they might be cannabis didn’t cross my mind.’ She frowned. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘The chaps in the lab are certain and I have to go on their word.’ He felt he ought to try to put her mind at rest. Tell her that no one suspected her of anything. But he couldn’t. At this stage he had to suspect everything and everyone. But he heard himself saying, ‘It’s a common enough substance. Although I’ve never been aware of a big drug problem in Stibbington, and anyway, according to the boys who work on the drug squad, cannabis hardly comes into that category nowadays.’

  Lizzie raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? I should have thought it would. It is an illegal substance.’

  ‘It is, of course,’ Maguire hastened to clarify his words. ‘What I meant was that they are so used to dealing with heroin, cocaine, crack – the mix-it, shoot-it brigade – that they are pretty blasé about pot.’ He drained the last of the malt and stood up. ‘It’s not strictly the done thing, but if you could draft out exactly what you saw and did when you arrived here this afternoon up until the time you found the body, I’ll get it typed up and you can sign it.’ It was a small peace offering and he hoped Lizzie would recognize it as such.

  She must have done for she said, ‘I can do better than that. I’ll type it up on my laptop, sign it and give it to you before you go.’ She paused and then scooped the two empty glasses towards her. ‘You said you were off-duty.’

  ‘If you’re offering another drink I’ll have to decline,’ Maguire said reluctantly. ‘The only solid thing that has passed my lips today has been half a rather dried-up ham sandwich. Another glass of that malt and the constable outside will arrest me for being drunk in charge of a dog.’

  ‘I was thinking of something more substantial,’ said Lizzie. ‘How do you fancy some tortellini with mascarpone and ricotta cheese, served with a sage and butter sauce over the top?’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ Maguire heard himself saying. He had no idea what it was; the only words he recognized for certain were sage and butter. His repasts were of the easily recognizable, very English variety. Rosemary had been a very good, plain cook, and he still stuck to the same kind of dishes. Shepherd’s pie, sausage and mash or casserole of some sort if Mrs Clackett did it. But the thought of someone else preparing food, especially now when he was feeling so weary, was an offer he couldn’t turn down. But an awkward thought occurred. ‘Of course,’ he said, feeling a little ill at ease, ‘it would be sure to cause a certain amount of gossip. Kevin Harris is bound to mention it.’

  ‘Gossip?’ Lizzie turned back from the fridge where she’d been extracting the ingredients. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Then she suddenly laughed. ‘Oh, you mean about two middle-aged people of the opposite sex having supper together.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Maguire. ‘Although I don’t like to think of myself as middle-aged.’

  ‘You may not like to think it, but that is precisely what you are, and so am I,’ replied Lizzie briskly. Maguire suddenly had a picture of how she was when dealing with her patients. She would have a brisk, no-nonsense, practical manner. She’d be kind but call a spade a spade. ‘Now, if you are going to stay,’ she continued, ‘you can make yourself useful and get down those two pots from the top shelf behind you. No! Not those two. The other two. The large one and the small one. And here is a bottle of red wine. Open that for me so that it has a chance to breathe.’

  Obediently, Maguire began to follow her instructions, and reflected that life was full of ambiguities. Here he was feeling almost happy, just because unexpected domesticity had suddenly been thrust upon him.

  Supper finished, the report typed out and put in Maguire’s pocket, they sat in silence either side of the table, Lizzie indulging in another glass of wine. She hated admitting it, and certainly would not have divulged it to Adam Maguire, but the truth was she hadn’t wanted him to leave. It wasn’t an overwhelming desire for his company which made her invite him to supper, but an overwhelming desire not to be on her own. She had never before considered herself to be of a nervous disposition, but since living in Stibbington she’d begun to doubt whether she was as strong and self-sufficient as she liked to think. Two murders in less than a week were proving to be more than a little daunting even though she’d lived with, and amongst, violence in an inner-city district, and it had never bothered her. Somehow the violence there had seemed quite separate from her life. Something that happened to other people because of the company they kept. She only became involved on the periphery, helping to pick up the pieces when necessary. But in Stibbington the murders assumed a menace, which reached out and touched the whole community. The very quietness of the place caused the deaths to appear sinister. Now it was time for Maguire to leave and she was feeling apprehensive again.

  It seemed that perhaps he was a
ware of her fears for as he was shrugging his broad shoulders into his overcoat, he said, ‘The policeman outside will remain on guard the rest of the night.’

  Lizzie managed what she hoped was a confident smile. ‘I’m not nervous,’ she lied. ‘After all, I remember you telling Mrs Matthews that murderers rarely return to the scene of their crime.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Maguire. ‘Why should they? Once something is done it’s done. They move on, just the same as the rest of us.’ He buttoned up the overcoat, adding, rather grimly, thought Lizzie, ‘That is what makes them so bloody difficult to catch.’ He bent down and roused a very sleepy Tess, who’d thought she was in for a good night’s sleep in front of the boiler. ‘I’d offer to leave you Tess. But she’d be no use. She’s deaf and too arthritic to catch a cold, let alone an intruder.’

  ‘I’m not nervous,’ Lizzie repeated, then added, ‘anyway, don’t forget I’ve got an enormous brass candlestick by the side of my bed. As I told you, if uninvited guests arrive I shall clout them first and ask questions later.’

  ‘And the intruder will probably prosecute you for grievous bodily harm with intent,’ said Maguire.

  ‘Not for defending my own property and person, surely.’

  ‘Huh!’ Maguire snorted. ‘You can’t count on that for defence these days. There are some bloody clever Dick lawyers about. I tell you it’s a minefield out there sometimes. People sue at the drop of a hat.’

  His melancholy tone of voice made Lizzie smile. ‘Sounds a bit like medicine,’ she said. ‘Nowadays one treats the patient and worries about their litigious intent at the same time.’

  Maguire opened the front door and started off down the path. ‘I’ll check with forensics, but I’m pretty certain that we’ll be out of your garden and leave you in peace by tomorrow afternoon. And once Grayson and company have gone over the house, you’ll be on your own again.’

  Lizzie bit her lip. Damn. She had forgotten. ‘How long will they be in the house?’

  Maguire paused. ‘They should be all finished by lunchtime at the latest. You’ll be left in peace after that.’