Old Sins, Long Memories

by Angela Arney

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Maguire slammed the phone down. Damned stupid woman. Who was she to take the law and possibly her life into her own hands? But he knew the reason why; he’d tried to persuade her to go against maternal instincts and failed. Her daughter was in danger, which was all she could think about. He knew he’d have probably been the same if he’d had a daughter, but now Lizzie Browne had put both of them in danger.

  ‘Steve!’ he roared, at the same time dialling Phineas’s number.

  ‘Sir?’ Steve Grayson came running. It wasn’t often Maguire shouted. ‘The major’s making a fuss, sir. He says we’ve got to take a statement from his wife so that he can take her home, he says—’

  ‘Damn the major. Tell him we can hold her for tonight, and will do so, and get WPC Jones on to it. Make sure the woman is comfortable. In the meantime we’ve got another murder on our hands. Emmy Matthews down at The House on the Hard.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Grayson.

  ‘What’s that? Emmy Matthews murdered?’ Phineas had picked up the phone and heard Maguire’s last remark.

  ‘Yes, another murder, Phineas. This place is going mad. Grayson is going down there with another officer.’ He nodded at Grayson, ‘Take DC Gordon.’

  ‘He doesn’t know much about the case,’ objected Grayson. ‘And we’ve never worked together.’

  ‘We don’t have a case, as you call it. All we have is a series of murders which seem to be spreading like a bloody epidemic. Don’t just stand there; find him and get going. I’ll organize Phineas Merryweather and forensics. Go!’

  The last shouted word galvanized Grayson into action. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And where are you going?’ asked Phineas still listening in on the phone. ‘What is more important than the scene of a murder?’

  ‘The scene of a potential murder,’ said Maguire. ‘I’m taking young Kevin Harrison and two squad cars and going to Steepletoe village hall. And if I don’t get there quickly there could well be a disaster.’

  ‘Are you sure? Disaster’s putting it a bit strongly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course I’m not bloody sure,’ shouted Maguire. ‘I’m not sure of anything, and am getting less sure by the bloody minute, but I can’t risk not going.’

  ‘Hold on, my dear chap, I—’

  ‘Goodbye.’ He cut Phineas off in mid-sentence. There wasn’t time for a discussion. Phineas didn’t know what he knew. A few swift phone calls, and within ten minutes – much too long for Maguire’s liking – three police cars were on their way to Steepletoe. Once he had the facts the super hadn’t quibbled, just given orders, and four officers had drawn weapons. Maguire hated using guns, and, like Grayson, hated working with men he didn’t know well, but with the possibility that Lessing was carrying a weapon they couldn’t take chances. No sirens were blaring, Maguire had ordered silence, but the flashing blue lights were on illuminating the tangle of branches and piles of debris caused by the storm as they sped along. They went the long way round. Everyone knew that by now the water-splash would be completely impassable.

  Maguire sat in the passenger seat and thought. Lizzie had said Giles Lessing alias Mrs Smithson. If the man was in drag no wonder no one had seen him. But no one had seen a woman near any of the murder scenes either. But a man on a motorbike was another matter. Why the hell hadn’t anyone mentioned it before? Of course, Lizzie had eventually, but he’d dismissed it. Surely Emmy Matthews must have seen the bike as well. Too damned late to ask her now; if she had mentioned it maybe she’d still be alive. Maguire was certain in his own mind that Giles Lessing must have murdered Emmy Matthews. Obviously, she’d found out too much. But proving it – that would be a different matter altogether. Strangled, Lizzie Browne had said. Why hadn’t the man kept to his preferred method of murder? Shooting! Strangulation was another complication to an already complicated case.

  He wondered what Lizzie Browne was doing. He found himself thinking of her as Lizzie, a distraught mother, not a scientist, or a cool, calculating doctor. But he prayed that her normal presence of mind would prevent her from doing anything silly, such as putting her own and other people’s lives in danger. A man and a gun was a dangerous combination.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes before the lights on the outskirts of Steepletoe came into sight, and then a few seconds later the brightly lit village hall itself. The cars skidded to a halt.

  ‘The music’s still playing,’ Maguire said to the assembled officers, ‘that’s a good sign. Nothing can have happened.’

  They spread out to a pre-arranged plan; the armed officers had their orders and knew what to do. Maguire strode towards the main door of the hall.

  Lizzie stood in the doorway of the ladies’ lavatory out of sight of everyone in the hall, which was just as well as she was dripping all over the floor, and her breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

  ‘Can I help you?’ An elderly woman wearing an apron and carrying a tray of teacups stopped by Lizzie’s side. ‘You look a little wet, dear.’

  ‘No, you can’t help me,’ hissed Lizzie in between gulps of air. ‘Go away.’

  The woman went off in the direction of the kitchen, teacups rattling. ‘Well, I was only trying to help,’ she said huffily.

  Afterwards Lizzie couldn’t remember how long she’d stayed there out of sight, trying to get her breath back, and trying to concentrate. There was a lull in the music, and the room was full of people milling about, talking, and laughing. She couldn’t see Louise. It was difficult to pick anyone out, there were so many young people all dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and the lighting was dim. Then she tried to find Mrs Smithson – or Giles Lessing. Suddenly, panic struck, making her shiver. She’d be able to recognize him if he was dressed as a woman but had no idea of what he looked like as a man. Giles Lessing could be anyone in the room. Anyone at all. Oh, please God let him be dressed as a woman, she found herself praying.

  The band, consisting of three elderly men playing an accordion and two guitars, started up again, and the caller grabbed the microphone, clapping and shouting in time to the music. The noise was ear-splitting, and Lizzie felt her strength draining from her. How would she ever find Louise here? The noise was stopping her from thinking straight. Whooping and laughing, the entire room began circling right and then left. It was then that she saw Louise. She was laughing with her partner, a tall, blond young man with glasses. There was something familiar about him, but Lizzie couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Not a first. But it only took a few seconds for her to realize what the familiarity was. The hair was not as golden, or as long, but the sensitive face was the same. Except for the glasses he looked like Tarquin. But how could he? They were not related, although Mrs Mills had hinted there was gossip. But none of that mattered now. Lizzie felt as if her mind were wrapped in cotton wool. Thinking was so difficult. Concentrating was so difficult. She felt exhausted. But hammering through her head was the certain knowledge that Louise’s partner was Niall Walsh, and that somehow she had to get her away from him, get them both away from danger. But her first concern was for the safety of Louise.

  She hung back. Hesitant. What to do for the best? She couldn’t rush out across the dance floor in the state she was in. It might precipitate Giles Lessing into doing something drastic. Oh, where was he? Was he in the hall or lurking outside somewhere waiting to come in? Clinging on to the door jamb of the lavatory Lizzie tried to think clearly. It was more and more difficult. She felt so tired; her limbs were leaden from her struggle through the flood, and the music seemed to get louder and louder. It echoed round and round in her head, threatening to submerge her in noise.

  ‘Dozey to the right, basket to the left,’ the caller shouted in a broad Hampshire accent. ‘Take your partners and around you go.’

  The dancers swirled around the room in a big circle as the music rose to a crescendo. Lizzie thought her head would split. She couldn’t bear it. Exhausted, she closed her eyes for a moment, still hanging for strength to the
doorway. Then she opened them and looked straight across the room at Giles Lessing. He was standing against the far wall in a woman’s brown tweed suit, clasping a large leather handbag. It seemed to Lizzie that everything was happening in slow motion. His hand moved into the handbag slowly, oh so slowly, and then Lizzie saw the glint of metal as he took his hand out of the bag. Feeling as if she were standing outside of herself, witnessing the scene from afar, Lizzie opened her mouth to call out. She could almost feel the separate muscles of her face move as she mustered up the effort to shout. From somewhere, she never knew where, Lizzie dredged up the strength to scream at the top of her voice, over the top of the music, over the top of the caller ‘Louise, Niall, he . . . she’s got a gun. Get down!’

  Then she snapped back into action. This time fast forward. The assembled company turned as one and looked at her as she ran, screaming at the top of her voice, across the floor to where Louise and Niall were standing.

  She saw the gun come up. Why weren’t they lying down? At the back of her mind old TV films wound in silent slow motion. That’s what one had to do when guns were going off. They had to lie down. ‘Lie down,’ she screamed. ‘Everyone lie down!’

  A bright light exploded in her head. Somewhere there was screaming. Lizzie felt a gush of warm liquid down her face. I’ve been shot, she thought. Then there was darkness.

  Maguire saw Lizzie stagger across the floor towards her daughter. He also saw the woman opposite take the gun from her handbag. Powerless to do anything about it himself, other than run after Lizzie and try to restrain her, he prayed that his men were on the ball, and had seen everything, and could prevent the gun being fired. They had. Almost before the gun was raised an officer was there, his hand on the woman’s arm jerking the gun upwards. But it was not quite soon enough. The gun was fired and Lizzie collapsed on the floor in a pool of blood.

  ‘Mum, Mum!’ Far away Lizzie could hear Louise calling her name. There was the sound of weeping. She wanted to say don’t worry, but couldn’t because she was trapped in darkness just the other side of consciousness. She tried to hang on, claw her way towards the voice, but couldn’t and wearily let go.

  ‘Come round, you stupid woman. Didn’t I tell you to mind your own business, and that murder was dangerous?’

  It was the stupid woman that did it. How dare he! Indignant, Lizzie ferociously clambered back into consciousness. She opened her eyes to find Maguire kneeling over her, his hand on the side of her neck. He was checking for vital signs. ‘I’m not dead,’ she said crossly, spitting the blood out from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘You damned well deserve to be,’ he said.

  ‘You needn’t have shouted at me,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Well, we couldn’t leave you lying asleep on the dance floor for ever. Lie down.’ He pushed Lizzie, who was struggling to sit up, back down, before he was elbowed out of the way by Louise and a paramedic.

  ‘Mum,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum.’

  ‘Out the way, miss,’ the paramedic said. ‘Your mum is off to the infirmary. You can talk to her later.’

  An oxygen mask was clamped over her face and Lizzie drifted back into semi-consciousness again, dimly aware of a mass of people around her. Maguire was in the background and Louise was holding her hand. Above her the roof beams moved past in regular procession, and then it was dark. It had stopped raining, and she could see the stars. But only for a moment. Then she slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Giles Lessing confessed to all three of the murders, which caused a bit of confusion as Maguire now had two confessions to Melinda’s murder. When he’d questioned Mrs Brockett-Smythe again she’d just collapsed into an incoherent quivering heap, and eventually a frustrated Maguire reluctantly gave up trying to find out what had really happened and took Giles Lessing’s word for it. But not before he had confessed his doubts to the superintendent, who told him to be thankful for small mercies and close the case.

  ‘Keep your doubts to yourself,’ said the super. ‘This is between the two of us’. So he did, although it all seemed a little too neat to him and Grayson.

  ‘But I suppose orders are orders,’ Grayson observed as they watched the major escort his wife home. Later that day, Giles Lessing was charged with all three murders.

  The funerals of Darren, Tarquin, and Melinda were held together, one week later, just four days before Christmas. The major arranged and paid for all three, and had even bought three plots so that they could lie side by side in the new grassy cemetery, which had been built beside the coast road to Keyhaven.

  Maguire attended with a reluctant Grayson. For once in his life he was glad that the major had been able, through his various business and freemasonry contacts, to bring pressure to bear on the authorities. Major Brockett-Smythe had wanted all the necessary business over and done with as quickly as possible and it had been. The post-mortems, the inquests, the paperwork, everything had been done in record time. ‘Just shows,’ he said to Grayson, ‘that these things can be hurried if people put their minds to it.’

  ‘An indecent haste, if you ask me,’ muttered Grayson. He did not approve of anyone being able to exert any pressure on anyone else, and certainly not ex-magistrates and freemasons, who he regarded with equal suspicion.

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Maguire. ‘Tell me, what good does it do in hanging around, prolonging the families’ agonies? Prolonging our agony. You know a case is never shut until the last T is crossed and I dotted.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Grayson looked more cheerful. ‘At least now it’s done we can have a decent Christmas.’

  Maguire looked over to where Lizzie was standing. He had not expected to see her there. But there she was, looking pale with a large dressing plastered to the side of her head. Louise was standing close to her, fussing a little, holding on to her arm. Almost losing her mother to a gunman’s bullet had evidently given their relationship a new dimension, reflected Maguire wryly. For the moment Louise was the carer; she was in charge, and was scuttling around Lizzie as if she were a very precious object indeed.

  Maguire and Grayson stood a little apart from everyone else. Not that there were many people there, just the major and his wife, Mrs Girling, Niall Walsh, themselves, and Lizzie and Louise Browne. The press had stayed away, which didn’t surprise him. No story in funerals. And anyway the national journalists had moved on to other, more exciting, events; a Minister of State had been caught hiring high-class prostitutes in one of the classiest hotels in London. The tabloids were having a field day. Even Danny Bayley of the Stibbington Times hadn’t bothered to turn up, although he did send a photographer, and no doubt, thought Maguire, he’d fabricate a nicely touching little piece for the weekend’s bumper Christmas edition.

  The small party followed the hearse from the tiny stone chapel situated within the cemetery to the graveside. The weather had changed completely. It seemed that the heavens had emptied themselves of rain, for now it was brilliantly sunny, dry and frosty. Standing on the short-cropped turf, his breath steaming in the bitter cold, Maguire looked out across the sea, thinking that the view was almost too beautiful to be real. The smooth surface of the Solent gleamed like glass beneath the morning sunlight; now and then the smoothness melted into treacherous swirls where the current was fast and deep. Beyond was the Isle of Wight with the great jagged rocks of The Needles and the red and white striped tower of the lighthouse, marking where rocks lay beneath the water. The scene stood out clear and sharp in the frosty air. It was when he looked at such a view, and breathed in the fresh sea air, that Maguire knew he could never go back to a city job. Promotion palled into insignificance. He would stay put, here in Hampshire, no matter what happened.

  ‘You know, there’s something I’ve been puzzling about,’ said Grayson in a low voice. They were standing far enough back for no one to hear them. ‘And that is Melinda’s murder. Tell me what you think. Honestly. Do you think Mrs Brockett-Smythe killed her stepdaughter or was it really Lessing? I know he
’s confessed, but somehow I couldn’t help thinking that he just said it because he didn’t care what happened once we’d caught him.’

  ‘Very astute of you, Grayson.’ Maguire watched the Brockett-Smythes. They both looked ghastly. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept at all since the murder, and he looked sick with worry. He felt an immense sorrow for them both. They’d lived with the demon of Melinda’s illness for years, and now, suddenly, that had gone. But, he wondered, how long would it be before they’d realized that all they’d done was to exchange one demon for another? How long? Minutes, days, a week? A demon that they had created themselves, and one from which there would be no escape. Maguire knew only too well that it was possible to batten down the mind for so long, but every now and then, the thing you’d battened down, whatever it was – pain, loss, guilt – would escape, rear up, and confront you. In their case it was guilt. A peaceful old age was not to be their lot in life. Dark secrets were not conducive to tranquillity.

  Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I do believe she killed her. But I don’t think it was murder. I believe it was a ghastly accident, and she wasn’t really certain whether she was dead or not, and then she panicked and left Melinda on the floor, where she bled to death. It was just as she told us when she first confessed. But then her confession was annulled by Lessing’s. And you’re right about him. I don’t think he did care. Why should he? He’s at death’s door anyway and he’d admitted to two murders, so what is one more? And there’s no doubt in my mind that he did intend to kill Melinda, and unwittingly he did. But now he’s so ill, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to question him enough to ever find out the truth.’

  Grayson was puzzled. ‘How do you work that out? That he unwittingly killed her?’

  ‘When Lessing killed Darren, and then Tarquin, he cut off the supply of cannabis the Brockett-Smythes bought for Melinda. It was this fact that triggered her violence. The violence that caused her to attack her stepmother with a knife. There was a struggle, and it ended up with Melinda herself being killed.’