Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  ‘He wants a drink,’ said Christina. ‘We ought to stop.’

  ‘We can’t. We’re on the M3. There’s no stopping, you know that.’

  ‘We could stop on the hard shoulder. You’re allowed to do that in an emergency.’

  ‘A thirsty baby is not an emergency.’ He heard Christina’s sharp intake of breath and knew she was annoyed. He compromised. ‘We’ll stop at the next service station.’

  ‘Well, all right then,’ Christina said grudgingly, adding, ‘If we weren’t running so late Tom wouldn’t be fretful and thirsty. He’s been very good up until now.’

  ‘I know. But I’m not in control of the volume of traffic.’ Niall was tempted to add that they could have been earlier, and missed some of the traffic, if she hadn’t fiddled around so much at the last minute, but decided against mentioning it. Anything for peace and quiet.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Christina as the lights of the service station came into view through the gloom. ‘I’m going to take Tom to the baby room, change his nappy, and give him a drink.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’ll get an Echo and catch up with some local news. Should be out now it’s nearly lunch time.’

  Niall held the umbrella and sheltered Christina and Tom as they hurried across the car park towards the lights and warmth of the service station. It wouldn’t be long before they arrived in Stibbington and Niall’s thoughts wandered on to his old friends. Once it was all over his parents had always pretended that nothing had ever happened. Did they really think he had forgotten? Some things you could never forget, which was the reason he had not wanted to visit Stibbington again. But his father had insisted, and Christina thought it was a lovely idea. His mother had said nothing, so Niall remained silent too.

  Once inside the service station entrance Christina turned. ‘It will take me about fifteen minutes to sort Tom out. What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll get a paper, and sit over there.’ Niall nodded towards a red metal bench. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  Christina took Tom, who had now stopped howling and was looking about with interest, and hurried off in the direction of the mother and baby room. Niall went into the shop in search of the local paper. They were located at the far end, past the cold counter laden with sandwiches in plastic containers, Cornish pasties and, as it was nearly Christmas, boxes of mince pies. The sight of all the food made him feel hungry, and he felt mean for not having been more sympathetic towards Tom and his needs. His expression softened as he thought of him. He was his son, his own flesh and blood, and he loved him.

  He found the papers, but the local Echo was not there. Disappointed, he turned away to be confronted by a large youth, clad in bright yellow oilskins. In his arms was a pile of the newly issued Echo.

  ‘Bit late today, mate,’ he said to Niall, dumping down his load. ‘They held the first page back because of the latest murder.’

  Niall took the top copy. The headlines screamed SECOND MURDER IN STIBBINGTON. Serial Killer at Large. He paid at the counter and bought himself a small bar of chocolate, then had second thoughts and went back and bought another for Christina, went outside, sat on the red bench, bit off a piece of chocolate, and started to read.

  When Christina came out with a clean and happily replete Tom she found Niall sitting staring into space, the half-wrapped chocolate bar still in his hand, his face ashen.

  ‘What is the matter?’ She sat beside him.

  ‘There’s been a murder. Two murders, in fact.’ He pushed the paper towards her.

  Christina handed Tom over to Niall. He took him in his arms and held him close. All he could think of was Tarquin. All he could see was the gold of Tarquin’s hair. The same colour as Tom’s. Darren and Tarquin. Both dead. He hadn’t thought about Darren for years. Had difficulty in even visualizing him now after such a long time. But Tarquin was different. He had no difficulty in visualizing him; they’d been so close at school. Was it chance that the two of them had been murdered, or was there a connection? Surely it was too much of a coincidence? But why now after so long? A kaleidoscope of emotions swirled through his head, long suppressed memories and fears. The accident. It was horribly vivid, so real it could have happened only a few moments ago. Time could never erase some memories. He shuddered as the scream of tyres sounded in his head, the revving of an engine, the sickening crash and subsequent silence. He tried to stop it searing into his mind once more, but failed. It was there in all its terrifying reality. Without realizing it he tightened his hold on Tom, who began to cry.

  Christina snatched the baby back. ‘Don’t hold him so tightly, Niall. He doesn’t like it.’ She dropped the paper on the floor. ‘And what are you getting so uptight about? A couple of dropouts in Stibbington have been murdered. So what? It’s nothing to do with us. We don’t mix with people like that. There’s no danger to us from the killer, whoever he might be.’

  Niall picked up the paper. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right.’ Christina smiled at him. ‘What on earth made you so worried?’

  ‘Well,’ Niall hesitated. ‘I suppose it’s because I knew both of the victims. We all went to primary school together, and then Tarquin and I went to the same grammar school.’ He left it at that. No need to tell her that his father had paid Tarquin’s fees. No one else knew. Even his father thought that he, Niall, was in total ignorance of the fact. So it had never been mentioned, remaining yet another unspoken barrier between them.

  Christina laid her hand on his and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry. I understand now. It must be sad to read about one’s school friends like that. But I don’t expect you’ve seen them for years, and what has happened to them has nothing to do with you, has it?’

  ‘No,’ Niall agreed. ‘It hasn’t and it’s true I haven’t seen them for years. Come on. Let’s get going.’ He stood up and unfurled the umbrella. It was necessary to keep a tight rein on his imagination. He’d come this far, no point in breaking down now and letting the past catch up with him.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Christina, once they were settled again in the car. ‘Let’s hurry. I hope your mother has got something nice to eat.’

  ‘She’s sure to have,’ said Niall. He passed her the chocolate and wondered whether his parents knew of Tarquin’s death yet. He wouldn’t say anything about it, he decided. He’d wait and see.

  ‘Oh, give me back the good old days.’ Dick Jamieson sank down into the lumpy armchair, which was reserved for him in the coffee room at Honeywell Practice.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Lizzie poured herself some coffee and took a biscuit from the communal tin. ‘Were there any good old days?’

  ‘I mean the days when I knew more than the patients about their illnesses. There was no internet to look it up on and then self-diagnose. These days most of them think they suffer from stress. Or else they present with a bewildering set of symptoms that have no physical manifestation, and then proceed to tell me they’ve got something that sounds as if it’s been made up by an advertising agency.’ He sniffed and took another biscuit. ‘And probably has.’

  Lizzie laughed.

  Peter Lee came in, overheard Dick moaning, and laughed as well. ‘You can blame all these tabloid newspaper and magazine doctors,’ he said. ‘Only last week my wife read an article in a woman’s magazine advising readers to call their GP if they suspected they had poltergeist activity in their house.’

  ‘Well, if they called me for that, I’d refer them on pretty smartly to a psychiatrist,’ said Lizzie.

  Maddy bustled in and snatched a cup of coffee. ‘Can’t stop,’ she puffed. ‘I’m just off to the AHA for a meeting of the PCG for the WH region. The whole thing has been set up by the NHPCC so it’s important that I’m there.’ She paused by Dick, gulped back her coffee, and said, ‘Now, Dick, anything special you want me to bring up?’ Dick shook his head, and Maddy dashed off, the door banging behind her.

  ‘Was a time,’ he said, still in nostalgic mood, ‘when
we used carbolic as a disinfectant, and I knew what nurses were talking about, and what’s more, they called me Doctor, not Dick.’

  Lizzie laughed, and Peter said, ‘You’ve got to move with the times, man.’

  The phone rang as Stephen came in for his coffee. He picked it up. ‘House call. Now. Urgent.’ He scribbled down an address. ‘Okay, the duty doctor will get on to it.’ He put the phone down, and turned to the room with one of his, Lizzie felt, carefully calculated, enchanting smiles. ‘Who is the duty doctor today? I have a feeling it ought to be me.’

  ‘It was you on the original rota,’ said Lizzie pointedly, ignoring the smile. He knew who it was; she’d seen him looking at the new rota. What was he playing at? ‘But Tara has changed everything. So today it’s me.’

  Stephen gave her the personal benefit of the smile which made him so popular with his patients. ‘I don’t mind taking an extra turn, Lizzie. After all, I’ve missed a few. I’ll go.’

  ‘No, I’ll go. We don’t want the rota messed up again,’ said Lizzie forcefully. ‘I’ve planned my social engagements around it now.’ Not strictly true, but she wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. She was being awkward and stubborn, and knew Dick thought so too. She could tell that from his frowning expression. But she wasn’t ready to capitulate to Stephen’s charm yet and be friendly. He’d have to work for it. Then, and only then, she might think about it.

  Stephen shrugged and handed her the piece of paper. ‘It’s up at Brockett Hall. Ivy James the carer called. An emergency with Melinda Brockett-Smythe, she said. I didn’t bother to inquire what kind of emergency. I expect it’s the usual burst of anti-social behaviour, although they hardly ever call us. If only they did, and allowed us to get her some treatment, these emergencies would never happen. But the Brockett-Smythes prefer to deal with her themselves.’

  Dick levered himself from his chair. ‘Perhaps I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Could be a difficult situation. You know what the major is like. ‘

  Already on edge Lizzie exploded. ‘For goodness’ sake! Do you think I haven’t dealt with difficult situations before? I’ve been working as an inner-city GP, remember. So I’ve probably had more difficult and hair-raising situations to deal with than you lot have had hot dinners.’

  ‘But you’re a woman,’ said Peter, ‘and the major is a man. A difficult man.’

  ‘And what damned difference does that make? I can deal with difficult men.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Dick quietly.

  Lizzie went, regretting her hasty words and her hot temper. Always a problem, it had got her into trouble on more than one occasion, usually concerning the same thing: men’s attitude to women. She didn’t think of herself as a rabid feminist, but saw no reason why women should ever be considered less able than men. Count to ten, her mother had always advised, then you will be easier to live with. But she had never counted. Maybe if she had, then she and Mike . . . . Lizzie shuttered her mind. No use in thinking about the past. All that was behind her. Those doors had closed and now others were opening. But she’d gone and put her big foot right in it. And all because Dick, kind man that he was, had offered to help. She’d have to apologize when she got back. But her first priority now was to find Brockett Hall and sort out Melinda Brockett-Smythe.

  A distraught woman met her at the gate, flagging the Alfa down as Lizzie turned into the long gravel drive.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. Perhaps I should have called the police. But I know Major Brockett-Smythe wouldn’t like that. So I called a doctor instead. But there’s nothing you can do. Nothing at all. Oh dear, and she was left in my care. I should have gone in straight away, instead of making myself a cup of tea and some toast in the kitchen. But with Mrs Brockett-Smythe calling me in today, so unexpected . . . it’s not my day, you know, I didn’t have time to stop and have any breakfast at home, so I was hungry. And as all was quiet, I thought I’d have time for a spot to eat and drink before I went in to see her. But I shouldn’t have done. I shouldn’t have done. Oh dear. What will the major say?’

  She ran out of breath and collapsed against the side of the car. Lizzie opened the door and literally had to haul the overwrought woman in. First things first, she thought, and asked, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ivy James. I come in and look after Melinda two mornings a week. But Mrs Brockett-Smythe asked me to come in today as she had some shopping to do. Today is not my usual day.’

  ‘What days are your days?’ Lizzie didn’t think it important, but the woman was on the verge of hysteria. It was important to keep her talking.

  ‘Wednesday and Saturdays. That’s when they, Major and Mrs Brockett-Smythe, go out to the Royal Oak for lunch. They have a regular booking for those days.’

  While she was talking Lizzie sped up the drive and pulled to a halt beside the Doric pillars flanking the portico behind which was the front door to Brockett Hall. It was a large Georgian mansion with a double row of white painted windows facing on to the drive, most of which had their blinds drawn, giving the house a sleepy look. It was beautiful, and so were the grounds. In fact, thought Lizzie, the whole set-up must be worth a small fortune. But money was no cushion against misfortune, and the Brockett-Smythe’s only daughter apparently had a severe mental illness. Damn, in her rush Lizzie realized she hadn’t bothered to pick up the notes on the girl. She’d have to ring back in for the medication list.

  ‘You’d better take me to Melinda,’ she said.

  Without a word Ivy James opened the door, which was unlocked, and led the way upstairs towards a room at the back of the house. Brockett Hall was divided into two by a long corridor, which ran the length of the house. Melinda’s room was in the far left hand corner of the house. Outside the door, Ivy James stood back and gestured with her hand. ‘I can’t go in there again,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to go in alone.’

  Lizzie opened the door. The sight that met her eyes was so horrific that for a moment she stood rooted to the spot. Nothing Ivy James had said had prepared her for this. Slowly, she edged her way around the dead girl. No need to search for vital signs; there was no doubt in her mind that Melinda was dead. Almost every drop of her blood had flooded out onto the carpet from the severed jugular. Lizzie bent down. She could even see the end of the artery, a tiny, now empty, little tube that had once contained the life-giving liquid now lying in a puddle beside the body. Already the blood was congealing, the edges a darker, richer colour, almost maroon, the inner pool still a light bright red. The gaping hole in the throat grimaced up at her and Lizzie shuddered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me she was dead?’ she called.

  Outside the door Ivy James began to sob. ‘I meant to. I thought I did. Oh dear, what will the major say?’

  Lizzie stepped out of the room, taking care not to touch anything or get the sticky blood on her shoes. Extracting her mobile phone from her pocket she punched out 999. ‘Police,’ she said. ‘Brockett Hall. There’s been another murder.’ Then she turned to the sobbing woman and gently led her downstairs. ‘I’ll make us both a nice strong cup of tea,’ she said. As they walked back slowly down the stairs Lizzie felt her own legs trembling. They hardly felt strong enough to support her, and as well as that she felt sick.

  Beside her, a sagging Ivy James was only managing the stairs with difficulty. She was getting more and more agitated. ‘What will the major say?’ she kept moaning. ‘What will the major say?’

  Whatever the major says it will be pretty irrelevant, thought Lizzie grimly. Nothing is going to alter the fact that his daughter is dead. Murdered, by all appearances, by a person or persons unknown. Stibbington, Lizzie reflected, was becoming a dangerous place to live.

  ‘In a way it’s a blessed relief,’ said the major.

  Maguire and Grayson both looked at him with something akin to disbelief. Relief? thought Maguire. Relief, when his daughter had been slashed to death as she had. But the major hadn’t seen her yet. They were downstairs in the kitchen now, while Phineas Merryweather was still up
with the body. The photographer had been, and had departed looking greener about the gills than usual.

  ‘That boy’s in the wrong business,’ Phineas had said with a snort. ‘Should be doing society portraiture, not forensic photography.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s trying to break into that business by the back door,’ said Grayson. ‘Build up a reputation.’

  Maguire thought the remark in poor taste. Phineas didn’t, he laughed. ‘One thing is for certain, he’s accumulated an interesting portfolio, although not one to tempt your average punter.’

  Maguire now concentrated on Major Brockett-Smythe. ‘Can you think of anyone who would wish to harm your daughter?’

  He shook his head. ‘She’s not been out of the house these last five years, and lately we’ve kept her locked in her room. When the symptoms first began she could still mix with people, but five years ago she began to get enormous mood swings, and become aggressive, and as the time has gone by she’s become much worse. Uncontrollable, sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you questions at a time like this. But it is necessary.’

  The major nodded. ‘I know. Go on.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t appear that she put up any resistance,’ said Maguire. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sometimes she was unaware of her surroundings, unaware of people about her. It was impossible to predict when she was going to be like that. We just had to try to cope with each episode as it occurred. It’s quite likely that she didn’t even realize that anyone was there.’