by Angela Arney
They were indeed dirty pictures, but of a very inoffensive kind. Not the kind that would get a policeman excited. No pornography or paedophilia. Merely tattered pieces of old newspapers, mostly page three type girls; big, buxom blondes with surgically enhanced breasts leapt out from the pages. Most of the papers were ten years old or more and were from the more lurid national tabloids. Some were local papers, the Echo and the Stibbington Times. Pictures of local beauty queens of years gone by parading in their swimsuits; it all looked so old-fashioned now. A pathetic little collection. The subject of an old man’s fantasies. She folded the papers up and replaced them.
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ On the point of closing the lid a name leapt up at her from the back of one of the faded pages from a copy of the Stibbington Times: Melinda Brockett-Smythe. She saw from the top of the page that the paper was ten years old. Slowly, she took it out, unfolded it, and scanned the text. Finally, she folded it again, and said to Peg, ‘Would you mind if I kept this paper? There’s an article in it that interests me.’ She hoped Peg wouldn’t ask what it was because it would be difficult to explain a hunch. Her hopes were realized. Peg Hargreaves was not interested.
‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘Just give me a death certificate so that I can get on to the undertakers and get Dad moved out of here.’
Lizzie pocketed the newspaper cutting and duly obliged with the death certificate. No problem there; she’d seen the patient earlier in the week and had known his medical condition. She handed the certificate to Peg. ‘There you are.’
Peg read it. ‘What does myocardial infarction mean?’
‘In other words his heart stopped,’ said Lizzie.
‘I thought everyone’s heart stopped when they were dead.’ Peg looked slightly puzzled.
‘True. Everyone’s heart does stop. But the law requires me to put it in more formal language.’ Lizzie snapped the black bag shut. No need to finalize Len Hargreaves’ notes on the laptop now. That could be done later at her leisure. Right now she wanted to get out and phone Adam Maguire. She felt a mixture of triumph and fear. If her theory was right, there was one more murder to go.
Adam Maguire was surprised to receive Lizzie’s phone call. She sounded excited and very mysterious. ‘Can you come round this evening?’ she asked, adding, ‘I’ve got something to show you which I think links up your three murder victims.’
‘Is that an invitation to supper as well?’ Against his better judgement Maguire heard himself angling for the invitation. It was not that he saw Lizzie in any romantic light. Far from it. She was much too brisk and efficient for that. Frightened him a little, if truth be told. But she was an extremely good cook, and the meal he’d shared with her the previous evening had made him reluctant to munch his way through another microwaved dinner for one this evening. Although common sense told him that microwaved dinners were his lot in life for the foreseeable future, unless he galvanized himself into learning how to cook, and that possibility was about as remote as the proverbial pig flying.
‘Oh!’ She was surprised, he could tell that. ‘I hadn’t even thought about supper.’ He cursed himself for being stupid. What was wrong with him? It was pathetic of him to be angling for an invitation. ‘To tell you the truth,’ Lizzie continued, ‘I haven’t had time to think about anything, I’m just about to start seeing patients. But now that I do think for a moment, I realize that as soon as I’ve finished here I shall have to scoot down the High Street to the supermarket and pray that it’s still open. My daughter is arriving tonight, and apart from some breakfast cereal and a carton of milk I’ve absolutely nothing worth mentioning in the food cupboard.’
Maguire attempted to mitigate his previous faux pas with a joke. ‘If you’re really desperate I have some tins of dog food I can let you have.’
To his relief Lizzie seemed to see the joke. She laughed. ‘If it comes to that,’ she said. ‘You are invited round to Chummy risotto, or whatever dog food is called these days.’
‘Being quite serious for a moment,’ said Maguire, ‘I will come. But I have a hell of a lot to clear up here before I’ll be free. So if it’s all right with you, I’ll come over at about 9.30 this evening. That should give you time to see your daughter, and for you to eat together, then you can settle down and tell me about this clue you’ve found.’ He breathed a silent sigh of relief at having, skilfully, he thought, extricated himself from a potentially embarrassing situation.
‘You don’t sound very anxious to know.’ To his ears he thought she sounded disappointed. ‘I’ve always been under the impression that the police leapt on every clue, panting with anticipation. I can tell you some of it over the phone if you want.’
‘No,’ said Maguire, ‘don’t bother. Police procedure is to go through everything slowly and methodically, which, by the way, is how we came to be known as Mr Plods, I suppose. And the reason we do that is because, from bitter experience, we often find that clues have a nasty habit of leading us in the wrong direction. I can wait until this evening.’
‘Ah well, have it your own way,’ said Lizzie briskly. He heard the buzzer go and guessed she was signalling that she was ready for her first patient of the evening surgery. ‘I’ll expect you later this evening, then.’
Maguire put the phone down with a sigh. He’d miss out on supper, that was a pity, but probably sensible. Besides, he had more work to do on Melinda Brockett-Smythe’s murder, which was different. He’d told Lizzie that gut feelings were rarely correct, but sometimes, not often, they did lead one in the right direction. And as far as this particular murder was concerned, he had a very strong gut feeling that it was contained within the family circle and had nothing to do with either of the other two murders. So far no one had been ruled out, or in. He suspected them all, and had told Grayson to do the same.
‘Don’t be afraid of noting any behaviour you think might be relevant, or pursuing any conversation no matter how informal, or even embarrassing, it might seem. Our task is to obtain and then evaluate. Sometimes it means asking questions we might prefer not to out of deference to the bereaved. But believe me; I think the answer lies at Brockett Hall.’
Grayson, however, had other ideas. He linked the murder to the other two. ‘It’s difficult to believe it could be anyone at the Hall, and surely it can’t just be coincidence that three young people have been killed so soon after one another. They must be connected in some way.’
‘Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think,’ said Maguire. Then he repeated what he’d told Lizzie earlier on. ‘We’ll look into any connection, of course. But I don’t expect to find one.’
But suspecting the major, his wife, or even Ivy James was one thing; proving it would be the problem. With his lack of success in unearthing any leads in regard to the deaths of both Darren and Tarquin, Maguire found himself wondering whether people who committed crimes were getting more devious and clever, or whether maybe he was getting more thick-headed as the years went by. There’d already been ominous rumblings from County Headquarters, and there were a couple of officers from the Regional Crime Squad being drafted down to help. He knew that if they’d had the manpower they’d have sent someone more senior down to ‘assist’ him, which was polite speak for taking over the case because he was incompetent.
Then there was the press to worry about. So far so good. All the murders had been reported, of course, but there’d been no great hue and cry in the media. However, that couldn’t go on for long. Sooner or later some newshound would get the bit between his teeth and then all hell would be let loose.
Maguire took a deep breath and mentally girded his loins. He’d talk to the major’s wife again. He’d keep it very informal for the time being. She seemed the most nervous of all of them and was the most likely person to let something slip out. Something that might give some insight into why this particular murder had been committed and by whom.
Niall sat in silence watching his mother and father play happy families with Christina and Tom. He couldn�
�t join in, although he sensed that Christina was trying to shame him into displaying some sort of filial and paternal devotion. But for Niall that was out of the question; two of his old school friends had been murdered. Why? Was it anything to do with him?
So he sat there in the flat, which reminded him of the living room of Silver Cottage. Everything was the same. The same pictures, hung in much the same places and at the same angles. The same sideboard, polished to an unnatural shine, with potted plants on lace doilies, all exactly in the middle as if they’d been placed there with the precision of a slide rule. He hated it. Hated all of it. The room was a symbol of his life. Everything in it, including himself, controlled to claustrophobic proportions. The only time it had been different was one summer when he was in his early teens. That summer he remembered seemingly endless days of playing tennis with Tarquin, Darren, and Melinda. The sun had always been shining, or so it seemed looking back on it; they had lived in the garden, lying chattering in the long grass scattered with buttercups beside the tennis court. It had been a golden summer with his friends, carefree, and full of laughter. Then, in a few split seconds it had all been ruined.
Watching his father, he wondered if he knew of the deaths. If he did, how could he act as if nothing had happened? No mention had been made of them. Geoffrey Walsh gave nothing away as he bounced Tom on his knee pretending that he was giving him a ride on a rocking horse. Tom squealed in delight; tiredness and tears forgotten now that he was safely on terra firma.
‘I thought I’d do tonight’s dinner at about 6.30,’ said his mother. ‘I know that’s a little early, but I thought you’d want to settle Tom down fairly early after your long journey.’
‘It’s not that long a journey,’ said Niall. He didn’t relish spending time with his parents, but a long evening spent at the House on the Hard with nothing to do but watch television and listen to Christina’s chatter was even worse. ‘He can stay up later while we’re down here.’
‘No.’ Christina was very firm. ‘We won’t disrupt Tom’s bedtime tonight. Besides, I’ve made arrangements to meet an old school friend this evening. She’s coming down to the House on the Hard after dinner.’
‘I didn’t know that you knew anyone here, dear,’ said Joan. She liked Christina. Such a sensible girl. So neat and tidy with a good methodical approach to life. Joan liked that. A good regime meant stability to her, and stability was a measure of sanity. Without her strict routines Joan knew she would have gone under years ago. Stability was so essential for Niall as well. He needed that. He’d been lucky to find a girl like Christina.
Christina smiled at her mother-in-law. ‘Louise is not from Stibbington. Her mother has recently come to work down here, and Louise is combining a visit to her with a visit to me. It will be fun to catch up with old gossip. I haven’t seen her since Niall and I were married, so we’ve a lot of ground to cover.’
‘What will you do, Niall? Watch television?’ asked Joan. She didn’t want him to go out in Stibbington. Not alone. He might meet someone he knew from the old days. He might find out about Darren and Tarquin. She was certain he didn’t know anything because she’d watched him carefully. If he had, surely he’d have given some sign, or said something.
‘Probably.’
Niall looked across at Tom. His hair, glinting gold in the light from the table lamp, reminded him of Tarquin again. But he’d already made up his mind. He wouldn’t stay in; he’d ask Mrs Matthews to baby sit, and if she said yes, he’d go down to the Ship Inn on the quay. Someone there would know what had happened to Darren and Tarquin, and why. That was important. He needed to know why. The article in the paper had been sketchy on actual details other than the fact that they’d both been shot. Fear shuddered through him, gripping him in a stranglehold. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to ask questions, but he had to know. If he’d been able to talk to either one of his parents it would have helped, but that was impossible.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WPC Jones came in from Stibbington Police Headquarters’ general office and plonked a piece of paper on Steve Grayson’s desk. ‘Looks like you might be getting somewhere,’ she said.
It was a report from the lab. The result of the forensic search of Melinda Brockett-Smythe’s room. There were a lot of things of no particular note, but cannabis had also been found. From the evidence it appeared that she had been a regular smoker. Grayson raised his eyebrows. It was a link of sorts, but not something to get too excited about. He agreed with Maguire. Smoking pot was no big deal. And, in his opinion, the evidence in Melinda’s room merely showed that the habit was more widespread in Stibbington than they’d realized. Maybe the major and his wife smoked as well, and perhaps Darren had been the supplier, or Tarquin Girling. Or perhaps they were both involved in it together. But none of that could really explain why the two of them had got themselves shot and Melinda’s throat had been slit. Grayson shuddered at the thought of Melinda. What a sight. He hoped he wouldn’t come across anything like that too often.
The phone rang. It was the girl manning the switchboard. ‘It’s your wife for you, Steve. Seems in a bit of a state.’
Grayson frowned; it was unlike Ann to phone him at work. She was not that kind of wife. She never usually bothered him. He heard her anxious voice. ‘It’s started, Steve. The baby, it’s coming.’
‘It can’t be, Ann. He’s not due for five months. You must have stomach cramp or something.’
At the other end of the phone he could tell Ann was near to tears. ‘I’m telling you something is happening to the baby. I know it, Steve. You must come.’
He looked at the report he’d just received back from the forensic lab, and then stuffed it in his pocket. It could wait. It wasn’t that important. ‘All right, I’m on my way. But you’d better ring the doctor as well. If there is anything wrong I’m not likely to be of much help.’
Kevin Harrison came into Grayson and Maguire’s cramped office. ‘Anything new on the latest murder?’ he asked cheerfully. For a moment Grayson envied him. A bachelor with no worries except whether or not he’d be selected to play football on Saturdays for Stibbington Wanderers. He didn’t have a pregnant wife in premature labour.
‘No,’ he lied, the lab report burning a hole in his pocket. There was something new and he ought to pass it on even if he thought it wasn’t that vital. And he would. But he’d do that later. Not now. ‘Can you tell Maguire, if you see him, that I’ve had to go out. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Where is he? And where are you going?’
‘If Maguire’s left Brockett Hall then he’s gone back to the Evans bungalow, or on to Silver Cottage. He said he was going back to look at both sites. Although God knows what he expects to find.’
‘Inspiration,’ said Kevin cheekily before withering beneath Grayson’s angry stare. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But you don’t seem to be getting very far and I heard the super on the phone saying that a load of traffic cops could do better than Stibbington CID.’
‘Bloody cheek,’ said Grayson, shrugging himself into his raincoat. ‘I’d like to see them try.’ He felt very guilty about the paper in his pocket. Bloody hell! What a dilemma. But he had to go. Ann needed him. Maguire would have gone if it had been his wife. He was certain of that.
‘Anyway, you haven’t told me where you’re going in such a hurry,’ Kevin persisted.
‘None of your bloody business,’ said Grayson, guilt making him angry with Kevin and himself. ‘On second thoughts, don’t say anything to Maguire. I won’t be long.’
‘Least said soonest mended,’ said Kevin with a knowing smirk. ‘A case of when the cat’s away, eh?’
‘You’re asking for a punch on the nose.’ Grayson pushed past violently, elbowing a grinning Kevin out of the way. ‘Haven’t you got anything useful to do?’
‘Now, now.’ WPC Jones hurried past. ‘Don’t fight, you two, or I shall arrest one of you for assaulting a police officer. I’m very surprised at you, Steve.’
‘
Shut up,’ said Grayson bad-temperedly, and then to Kevin, ‘go on, push off. What have you got to do next?’
‘Night duty again.’ Kevin was less cheerful as he said it. ‘I never get any of the action. I seem to spend all my time lately standing around at the scene of the crime when everything interesting has been taken away.’
‘Best place for you,’ said Grayson. ‘Action is for grown up cops, not those still wet behind the ears.’ He left the building and a glowering Kevin. He’d sort Ann out. Well, to be more precise he’d get the doctor to sort her out. If necessary he’d take her to the infirmary himself; the doctors there would know what to do. Then after that he’d get straight back on the case. He would have to. Ann would understand.
At the House by the Hard Emmy Matthews was welcoming Niall, Christina, and baby Tom. She showed them up to their room. One of her best. One that fronted on to the river. In summer it had a beautiful view of the River Stib, the serene blue of the water stretching away to the distant saltings. But today, the view was threatening: grey sky, grey water, even the moored boats were all grey reflecting the water slapping beneath their hulls. The only colour to be seen was the occasional splash of dark green from the holly and yew trees dotted about on the opposite shore. Emmy drew the curtains against the scene, and switched on the wall lights, which illuminated the dark red curtains giving the room a cosy feel.
‘I think you’ll find this warm enough. I’ve put a cot over there near the bathroom door – the room is ensuite, of course – and the television is over there in the opposite corner so if you want to watch it, it shouldn’t disturb the babe too much.’
‘Thank you,’ said Niall.
Emmy looked at him. So this was Niall now. He didn’t remember her. Why should he? She was just an ordinary woman of Stibbington, one of the many people he’d left behind when the family had moved away. But he seemed to have grown up well enough, considering. A bit different from Darren and Tarquin, who’d never pulled themselves together afterwards. But then of course, he’d had a respectable family to help him on his way. The other two had not been so lucky, and there’d always been gossip about Tarquin. Of course Melinda would probably have been all right, too, if she hadn’t become ill. She wondered if Niall knew about the murders. ‘Have you been keeping up with news of Stibbington?’ she asked tactfully.