by Angela Arney
Maguire watched him carefully; he was always aware that statistics proved that very often a chat with the bereaved was also a chat with the murderer, although Major Brockett-Smythe was a most unlikely looking candidate for murder. ‘We’ll leave it there for the time being, Major. The room upstairs will have to remain sealed until forensics have finished. I will talk to your wife as soon as she comes in.’
Lizzie had insisted on making her statement as soon as possible, and also sat with Ivy James while she made her initial statement. Both their statements were taken down in laborious longhand by Steve Grayson. When she signed hers Lizzie noticed several glaring spelling errors, but said nothing. What was a spelling mistake when someone had just been murdered? Murder put everything into perspective; spelling was not high on the agenda.
‘I intend to take Mrs James home now,’ Lizzie told Maguire. ‘She needs something to calm her down. She’s had the most terrible shock.’
‘What about you?’ asked Maguire.
Lizzie was calm now, but her calmness was procured at a cost. She couldn’t admit to Adam Maguire that she was constantly beating off the image of that grotesque body still lying upstairs. ‘I must admit I was pretty nauseated when I first saw her. But I’ve got over it now. I didn’t know her in life, so it’s easier for me. But she,’ she indicated a mute Ivy, ‘knew and cared for her. It must be much worse when one knows the victim.’
‘Yes,’ said Maguire. ‘It must be.’ He looked at Lizzie. ‘I’m sorry that the beginning of your life in Stibbington has had such a violent introduction.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Lizzie. ‘Just catch the killer. Catch him as soon as possible.’
‘Him, or her,’ said Maguire, adding, ‘although I doubt that this is connected to the other two. She’s not been shot.’
‘True,’ said Lizzie. She was thinking of the Brockett-Smythes, struggling to manage on their own. They should have had more help. Melinda should have been in a place where she could have had proper psychiatric nursing care. But she knew from conversation at the practice that the Brockett-Smythes were very secretive, and had not wanted people to see Melinda when she was ill. The tragedy was that by keeping her locked up, although they hadn’t ill treated her, they had denied her medical treatment. A difficult situation, and one, which as far as she could ascertain, no one had tried to solve. More and more she was beginning to realize that the people of Stibbington, including it seemed some of her colleagues at the surgery, preferred to let sleeping dogs lie. But no one should die in such a ghastly fashion. It was a strange and tragic case. Lizzie helped Ivy James into her coat, then turned back to Adam Maguire. ‘Do you ever have gut feelings?’ she asked.
‘Very rarely, and when I do they are even more rarely correct. They tend to put me off.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lizzie, and decided to tell him what was on her mind. ‘I have a feeling about this murder. Do you realize that she was the same age as the other two? They probably all knew each other when they were younger. Before Melinda became ill. Perhaps these killings are connected in some way.’
‘This is different,’ said Maguire.
‘But serial killers don’t always use the same method, do they?’
‘Not always. But often they do, because the killer wants you know that it is his work.’
‘Or hers,’ said Lizzie.
‘Or hers,’ agreed Maguire. ‘And of course, I will look into a possible connection. We’ll look at everything. But in the meantime . . . ’ he hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful,’ said Maguire. ‘But don’t tell the press I said that. I want to keep all this as low key as possible.
Lizzie raised her eyebrows. ‘Something tells me you’re going to find that very difficult. Three murders in one small town in one week! It’s going to make the national news. I’m just surprised the TV crews aren’t down here already.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Maguire gloomily. ‘I’m just praying that the political brouhaha going on up at Westminster continues to occupy them.’ He turned and left the kitchen.
As Lizzie drove Ivy James home she thought of old Mrs Mills, Stibbington’s retired headmistress. She had known Darren, and must have known Tarquin. So there was a good chance she’d known Melinda in the days when she appeared to be a normal little girl. Perhaps a clue to the connection might be there. But, she decided, it wasn’t fair to unleash the police onto an old lady. She’d make a few discreet inquiries herself. She’d pay Mrs Mills another visit as soon as possible.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘When are your new guests arriving?’
Mrs Smithson came into the kitchen looking, Emmy thought, a little edgy. Anyone else might have thought the woman looked unwell, but Emmy, always obsessed with her own state of health, wasn’t much given to noticing other people. To her, Mrs Smithson was merely edgy, and slightly bad tempered.
‘I’m expecting them at about three o’clock this afternoon,’ she replied warily, wondering where the conversation might lead.
‘I see. I thought they were coming earlier.’
Emmy didn’t think it was any of Mrs Smithson’s business but didn’t say so. Although she was all sweetness and light now, the episode in the bedroom had made Emmy very careful not to say anything that might upset her. ‘They did intend checking in before lunch,’ she said. No harm in telling her that, not that it was of any interest as far as she could see. ‘But Niall rang me from his parents’ house to say they were having lunch there and then coming on here.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Smithson didn’t leave the kitchen; instead she sat down rather heavily on one of the green plastic-covered stools. ‘I wonder if I could have a spot of lunch.’ She must have seen Emmy’s surprised stare for she continued, ‘I know I don’t normally want anything, but I’ve been busy all this morning.’ Emmy knew this because she’d heard her. It had sounded as if she was moving things about and she’d wondered what she was up to. She hoped that Mrs Smithson wasn’t altering the arrangement of the furniture. Sometimes the guests did that and it always infuriated Emmy. ‘And to tell you the truth,’ she finished by saying, ‘I’m feeling a bit off colour.’
‘How about a cheese omelette, would that be all right?’
‘That would be just perfect. Nothing too solid.’
She sounded breathless, causing Emmy to look a little closer. She thought that she did look rather dark around the eyes. Her make-up, which was always too heavy for Emmy’s liking anyway, seemed even heavier, making it impossible to see whether or not she was pale, but the foundation couldn’t disguise the skin around the eyes. Yes, Emmy concluded, she did look a bit poorly. She got the omelette pan from the cupboard, cracked two eggs in a bowl and began to whisk them. ‘You should see a doctor,’ she said. ‘I’ll call one for you if you like.’
‘No!’ The vehemence of the reply astounded Emmy.
‘I only offered,’ she said, offended, and a little unnerved by the violent reaction. Really, there was no telling with this woman what she’d do next. Not for the first time Emmy wished that she had a more normal guest. Although, if anyone had asked her what was abnormal about Mrs Smithson, apart from her volatile temperament, she’d have been hard pushed to say. ‘I wouldn’t dream of calling a doctor if you didn’t want me to. It was just a suggestion.’ Mrs Smithson made no reply, merely sat in rigid silence watching Emmy.
Her presence made Emmy feel uncomfortable, and to fill the awkward silence in the kitchen she switched on the radio. It was tuned into the local radio station, Radio Solent. Emmy always had it on that station. She felt she knew all the announcers personally, so familiar were their voices. It was like having your own family, once removed, actually in the room with you, she was fond of thinking. She put a knob of butter in the pan, watching it dissolve over the heat, swirling it around ready for the beaten egg, idly listening as the radio played the jingle which always announced the news. ‘The one o’clock news,’ the announcer said.
‘Th
e police have just issued a statement that the small town of Stibbington has had its third murder in a week. The victim has been named as Melinda Brockett-Smythe, aged twenty-seven, the only daughter of Major and Mrs Brockett-Smythe. No statement has been issued as to the manner of her death, but it is understood that no firearms were involved.’
‘Aaah,’ Emmy turned around just as Mrs Smithson swayed, and then slid from the stool.
Discarding the omelette pan, she rushed forward and just managed to catch her before she fell. Wedging her back against the wall, Emmy straightened her wig, then said, ‘Mrs Smithson, I really do think I should call the doctor.’
But Mrs Smithson, although nearly unconscious, was adamantly opposed to the idea. ‘I shall be all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll just lie down for a few moments.’ She tried to stand unaided, pushing Emmy away, but in doing so swayed again and came perilously close to falling.
Emmy held on to her, and pushed her back down on to the stool. Their faces were very close together, and Emmy noticed that Mrs Smithson’s skin was peculiarly smooth and hairless. She could see now, that beneath the make-up the skin was shiny, that she had hardly any eyelashes, and that the eyebrows were not eyebrows at all, but cleverly pencilled lines. Perhaps that was all due to the alopecia. She’d look it up in her medical encyclopaedia later but for now she had to help the poor woman. ‘I’ll help you to your room,’ she said firmly.
Mrs Smithson didn’t object this time, but when they reached the end of the corridor she got out her key and inserted it in the lock herself. ‘I shall be all right now,’ she said.
The inference was quite clear. She had no intention of letting Emmy into her room. Emmy wondered about the lunch she was supposed to be cooking. ‘Shall I bring your omelette along to your room?’
Mrs Smithson thought for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, please. Just knock on the door and leave it outside.’
So she definitely wasn’t going to let her in. Not even now, when she wasn’t well. Oh well, that was her funeral. Emmy retraced her steps back to the kitchen. She’d make the omelette and leave it outside the room as requested, and if it got cold, then that was too bad. She could do no more.
She made the omelette, took it back, knocked the door as instructed and left it outside. ‘I’m leaving your lunch.’ She called as she knocked the door.
‘Thank you.’
As she went back down the corridor she heard the door open, and the rattle of the plate on the tray as it was taken into the bedroom. Emmy breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs Smithson couldn’t be too bad, then, not if she was going to eat her lunch. For a moment there, back in the kitchen, she’d thought Stibbington was about to acquire another corpse, this time at the House on the Hard. Another corpse! Her mind went back to the news broadcast just before Mrs Smithson’s queer turn. So Melinda Brockett-Smythe had been murdered. Emmy thought that very strange. Everyone knew that Melinda was a virtual prisoner at Brockett Hall these days. Mad as a hatter, so the gossip went. Apparently the major had given strict orders that she was not to be let out. Then Emmy remembered Mrs Brockett-Smythe; she’d seen her only that morning, poor thing. That must have been before the murder. She wouldn’t have gone shopping afterwards. It stood to reason.
Emmy felt restless. Mrs Smithson’s odd behaviour was beginning to get her down. The radio was playing Christmassy tunes and on impulse she went through into the lounge where she kept the drinks cabinet. Locked, of course, in case guests should think the drinks were meant for them. After pouring a generous measure of cream sherry, telling herself that she deserved it because she was feeling a bit shaky, and after all it was nearly Christmas, she took her drink back into the kitchen, intending to relax. It was then that she saw something lying beneath the stool Mrs Smithson had been sitting on. It was very small and thin, of a size that would slip easily into a pocket. On closer inspection it proved to be a booklet – thin paper sheets between a shiny, dark red cover. Strange thing was it was all stuck together. Emmy picked it up, turning it over and over in her hands. Peeling back the edge she thought she could see that it was headed SHAF something. But that was as far as she could read. With a huff of frustration Emmy regarded the cover. She was dying to read it, but daren’t. If she did Mrs Smithson would probably fly at her again, and she couldn’t risk that. Already she was feeling shaky herself, and her heart was hammering. Besides, she had obviously stuck it together for a reason, and she was so unpredictable. But the more Emmy thought about it the stranger it seemed. What was Mrs Smithson doing walking around with a sealed-up booklet? With a sigh she put it down; she’d give it back later. It was probably something to do with the woman’s writing.
That Tuesday afternoon Peg Hargreaves rang the surgery and said she thought her father had suffered another stroke, and Lizzie, as duty doctor answered the call and went to the Hargreaves’ forest cottage on the edge of Stibbington. Her conscience was troubling her. She’d managed to make arrangements for Mrs Mills’ leg to be dressed the moment she’d returned to the practice, but no help had yet been forthcoming from social services to help Peg Hargreaves, and Lizzie regretted not pushing them a little harder. The social worker had been hostile and offhand, resenting being hassled. Lizzie, knowing how stretched the budget was, and how many cases of a similar nature the social worker was probably trying to cope with, had spent time sympathizing with her to the point of being quite friendly, but had still not achieved a visit for Peg. Now, she reflected, it was probably too late. Almost certainly Len Hargreaves would need to be hospitalized, at least for the time being, and then put into a nursing home. So Peg would be free, but it was no thanks to her.
Peg let her in silently. She led the way through to the dismal kitchen. The single light bulb was on; the fly-encrusted paper was still dangling from the ceiling, eddying round in slow circles in the warmth from the gas fire.
‘I think he’s gone,’ she said.
‘Gone? Do you mean dead?’
‘I think so,’ said Peg. ‘He looks very dead to me.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you say so when you phoned? Or call an ambulance instead of a doctor?’
‘Because I didn’t want a circus coming out here. I know what happens when you call an ambulance. You get one with its sirens blaring and then a police car comes as well. We like our privacy, Dad and me. You can just pronounce him dead and then the undertakers can take him away. It will be nice and quiet. Nothing for anyone to gossip about. I don’t want people talking about him now he’s gone.’
She sounded defensive and forlorn. Strange, Lizzie reflected, but then perhaps not. Human nature never failed to surprise. Only last week Peg had been telling her that she hated her father, and couldn’t wait to get away. Now she seemed to want to protect him.
Without another word she heaved the bag and laptop from the table where she’d deposited them only a second ago, and climbed the steep narrow stairs to Len Hargreaves’ bedroom at the front of the house. Peg was right. He was dead.
‘Dead as a dodo,’ muttered Lizzie to herself and felt surprisingly cheerful. It was almost a pleasure to find someone who had died of natural causes. A nice change to find a cadaver lying tidily in bed, eyes closed, hands clasped, and blankets pulled up. She pulled the blankets back, and gave a wry smile. He was still hanging on to that blasted old tin box. Gently, she took it from his hands and heard Peg come into the room. ‘When did this happen?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I put him to bed for his rest at about one o’clock this afternoon. After he’d had something to eat. And then I looked in on him at about three o’clock and he was like this.’
Lizzie felt him again. He was quite cold but rigor mortis had not yet begun. Death probably occurred soon after Peg had originally left him. ‘A merciful release, Peg.’ She heard herself using the old adage.
‘Yes.’ Peg sighed. ‘For both of us.’
The sigh said so much, and yet nothing at all. What had this young woman suffered? Her youthful innocence despoiled, and then her chance of free
dom and a normal life snatched away from her by events beyond her control. No one to help her. No friends or relatives, and the state, which had once boasted to care for its citizens from cradle to grave, had not been interested. Of course, it was unrealistic to expect that it should. The state had neither the time nor the resources to deal with every family crisis in the land. Only people like herself could help, and she and her colleagues had done nothing.
But now, belated though it was, Lizzie felt bound to try to reach out to her. ‘Peg, if there’s anything you want to talk about, now, or at any other time, don’t be afraid to come to me.’
There was silence for a moment, then Peg said, ‘No, there’s nothing. It’s finished now. Except. . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Lizzie.
‘Except that I think I should tell you that I’ve been smoking cannabis. I know that’s a crime and I shouldn’t have done. But I did.’
Of all the things she could have told her, she chose this small misdemeanour, thought Lizzie. ‘Yes,’ she said gently, ‘I know. I knew the first time I came to your house. I could smell it.’
Peg looked surprised. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It was not my business. I came to see your father.’
Peg seemed to relax and little. A slow smiled crossed her face. ‘I shan’t need it now, which is just as well as I can’t get any more.’
‘You got it from Darren Evans?’
‘Yes. He needed the money and I needed the smoke.’ She walked over and looked down at her father. ‘Now neither of us has needs any more. I shall be able to manage without my smoke, and Darren doesn’t need money.’ She picked up the tin box from the bed and put it on the chest of drawers.
Lizzie looked at the box. ‘What was in there that was so important to him?’
Peg sniffed. ‘Dirty pictures, that’s what,’ she said. ‘Pathetic, really. Take a look if you don’t believe me.’ She opened the lid and passed the box across to Lizzie.