The Decoy

by Florrie Palmer

  The Decoy

  Florrie Palmer

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. 22 June

  2. 22 June

  3. 22 June

  4. 22 June

  5. 22 June

  6. 22 June

  7. 22 June

  8. 23 June

  9. 23 June

  10. Late June to late July

  11. 28 July

  12. Late July

  13. 4 August

  14. 5–6 August

  15. Mid to late August

  16. 21 September

  17. 23 September

  18. Late October

  19. 3–5 November

  20. 5 November

  21. 6–8 November

  22. 7–8 November

  23. 9 November

  24. 9–18 November

  25. Mid-November to mid-December

  26. February, the following year

  Epilogue

  Copyright © Florrie Palmer

  The right of Florrie Palmer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First Published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-912986-60-6

  For Betsy & Fred

  With deep gratitude for everything

  Prologue

  The scent of my blood was nauseating. Metallic, sweet and so strong. A blowfly moved across my cheek, but I felt nothing. It was soon joined by more. Above me, the crows and rooks shrieked in the tree tops.

  I hover, I vibrate and I watch. I don’t feel cold or hot or pain or any external feelings. But I am enveloped in sorrow. Clad in a coat of guilt, shod in regrets, alone in a great grey cloud of sadness. I remember, I love and I hate. No eyes, yet I watch. No ears, yet I hear. I hover and vibrate and watch and listen and remember and love and hate and sorrow.

  I watched my murderer race away through the woods to where they had hidden their car. I followed in the wake of their wickedness as they dashed to my home.

  The police and the press have come up with their versions of the Heronsford murders. But, if you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything. I know the truth and need to tell it so I can forget.

  My headlong race through the lanes to witness the harm that was to befall my family wasn’t the beginning. The blood spilt in the woods, seen by the crows, wasn’t the beginning either.

  The beginning was a scene that resembled one of her photographs. Beautiful but eerily still. She lay on her stomach, arms half extended. Long scarlet hair floating free, vivid against the turquoise blue beneath her. Small, pretty, tanned body enticing in a strappy pale top and dark blue shorts, shapely lower legs spread, one slightly bent. Dead.

  1

  22 June

  A wet spring had meant that weeds had kept returning to the border where the vigorous, peach-pink rambler spread itself up and across the south wall of her converted barn. The rose infused the air around it with an intense fruity scent.

  Annie Berkeley was tackling the border now. The weeds were bigger and tougher to deal with than she usually allowed them to become, but the last couple of weeks had been so surprisingly hot that she had put off doing it. Her seventy-four-year-old back was aching and apart from that, she could have done with a cold flannel to run over her face and neck. Standing for a moment to relieve the pain, she thought of stopping on its account.

  With only another couple of yards to go, she made the decision to continue. That she would be in more pain later, she balanced with the fact that at least the job would be done. She bent down to prise up a dock. A toad leapt over her hand and scuttled off. Annie flinched for a second only.

  She stood up again, but the ache did not lessen. It was time, she decided, for a visit to Doctor Gordon.

  She felt eyes on her, turned and saw her daughter waving at her from her office.

  In the old stables that had been turned into offices, the tall skinny figure of Eliza Armstrong stood arms splayed, head bent over a large pine farmhouse table that was known as “the art table”. Her almond-shaped green eyes scanned a batch of near identical photographic images scattered across its rectangular top.

  There was something about her that might have reminded you of a gangly teenager. Her hips swayed slightly, the hem of her short green linen skirt swinging from side to side. If you had looked closely, you would have seen the iPod headphones under her generous head of wavy brown hair. You might also have picked up on her distraction and guessed that she would like to have avoided what she was doing.

  Her task was to pick the best for the latest up-coming catalogue, and it was boring her. Her mind kept wandering towards what she would wear that evening. She wanted to look her best. He was going to be there. She thought about choosing the simple emerald green belted dress. It was a striking colour that she knew suited her. Then she considered the navy-blue blouse with tiny white stars paired with the white Bermuda shorts which did show off her long legs to advantage. Having plumped for the latter, when she came out of her reverie, a shot of guilt went through her for thinking such thoughts. She was married, for God’s sake.

  A thick clump of hair flopped forward over her long Modigliani face and she tossed her head back, straightening up as she did. In what had become an almost unconscious habit over time, she gathered and twisted her mane with one hand into a bunch at her nape. She crossed over to the desk where, with the other, she grabbed an elastic band from the misnamed desk tidy, expanded it with her fingers and slipped the clutch of hair through it. It was too hot for hair down.

  Instead of returning to the table, she plopped her long body onto the expensive leather office swivel chair, bought when they had turned over their first fifty thousand pounds. With her feet, Eliza propelled herself and the chair across to the open window. She gazed across the wide stretch of the yard beyond where she saw the small purposeful figure of her mother, body bent and head bobbing as she weeded the flowerbed on the side of the barn, stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat from her forehead. She contemplated shouting to her to stop before she got sunstroke but thought better of it, especially since the usually sensible older woman was wearing a tatty old Panama that had belonged to Eliza’s father.

  A successful conversion twelve years before had turned the small barn into a two-bedroom modern house. It had once been a place where previous generations of her father’s family of farmers had stashed hay and straw bales harvested from the pastures beyond. This had fed and bedded carriage horses, carthorses, hunters and children’s ponies, once stabled where she was now sitting. That was when her parents had lived in Heronsford Manor Farm, the old brick and timber five-bedroom house. After her father had died, her mother had gifted the house to her only child, her husband Jay and their two children.

  The sight of Jay walking towards the office diverted Eliza’s attention. He was followed by the family’s black Labrador. The man’s head hung, his shoulders slumped, his gait was slow. He had become so different from the jaunty chap whose habitual, life-affirming stride was one of the many things she had found so touching about him. He was normally a positive-minded, go-ahead and forward-looking man, but the anxiety about the state of their business had affected him more deeply than Eliza would have believed possible. Even the clothe
s he was choosing to wear at the moment were the drabber, darker shirts and trousers, and dull grey T-shirts, when he had a raft of more interesting ones to choose from. Jay always had been a highly sensitive man who felt things deeply and took matters to heart, but lately, he had developed a preoccupied air that even the children had noticed.

  Eleven years earlier, Jay had given up an extremely lucrative London job to spend more time at home with the family and to make a go of putting Eliza’s name on the map as a ceramic designer. She had started as a hobby, making a pottery mug and a plate as a present for her mum. Everyone had liked them so much, they had encouraged her to make more and sell them locally. It had snowballed and soon she couldn’t make enough. This had decided Jay to leave his job in the city and start Eliza Berkeley Designs with his own capital. They had worked extremely hard to get it off the ground. He had set up an earthenware pottery factory in Stoke-on Trent and invested heavily in promoting the brand. This had paid off well for the first few years, when people had flocked to buy Eliza’s novel designs.

  But in the last two to three years, the business had taken a major nosedive. This was not for lack of trying, because they had brought out new designs every year. It was more probably because the time for the middle classes to fill their kitchens with colourful, naïve images of farmyard animals, dogs and cats adorning chunky pottery mugs and plates, had had its day.

  This year, Eliza had come up with some completely new ideas to try to boost the company’s flagging sales. She and Jay had sat down to a brainstorming session to see what original and more current ideas they could come up with for the new catalogue. Eliza had hit on vegans and vegetarians as a growing trend among the chattering classes and her new collection was called “Fruit ‘N’ Veg”.

  At its zenith, the company turnover had been high. Most of this had been ploughed back into the business. But now those times were gone. The shops weren’t stocking their goods anymore and now they were almost back to where they had started. Last year’s turnover had been worryingly low. At the moment they were just surviving by selling old stock at much-reduced prices, but unless the new designs took off, the future looked grim. Eliza had come up with new ideas, different mug and teapot shapes, but for some reason they had not caught the imagination of the buyers who had usually stocked their products.

  A free spirit at heart, Eliza would have been perfectly happy to muddle through in comparative poverty, or to have chucked it all in and done something else altogether, but her husband had so much to lose by letting the business go. If the new stock didn’t sell, the writing would be on the wall and he would be forced to close down the factory. He dreaded the thought of having to put the potters, workers, managers and truck drivers out of work. What made it harder for him was that he had a love for the good things in life, cars, holidays, expensive wine, champagne, all the things that Eliza had never especially cared for, but that he hadn’t had as a child and desperately wanted.

  For the family’s sake, Eliza had to try and keep cheerful about the situation. She was unsure whether they could rescue the business, but was determined not to let Jay or anyone know that she felt that way. At least, this is what she told herself, although there were times when she just wanted to run away from the business. And, it must be said, from Jay. But then surely everyone felt like that sometimes, and at the moment it was hardly surprising that she had the occasional fanciful thought.

  Eliza took a last glance back at her mum slowly straightening up, a trug full of weeds in one hand, the other rubbing an evidently hurting back. She sighed in the knowledge that lately the old girl did seem to be slowing up and developing aches and pains.

  But Eliza had an unusual mix between a practical approach to life coupled with an imaginative, idealistic nature. She told herself to remember that age happens and that since the once so energetically formidable woman was now seventy-four years old, such things were to be expected.

  At that moment, as though aware of her daughter’s gaze, her mother looked up and waved at Eliza. It was too far to shout. She mimicked drinking from a cup, pointed to her house and held up four fingers to suggest four o’clock. Eliza gestured back with thumbs up. She had hardly seen or talked to her in the last few days and was happy to accept the offer.

  As Jay stepped through the door, Eliza arranged her face in its latest go-to expression of what she hoped was a broad, encouraging smile. At least it was Friday. Perhaps meeting up later with their mates would cheer him up. As they often did on Friday evenings, they were convening in the Old Cock at seven o’clock. Knocking back a few and unwinding before the weekend invariably turned into a boozy time since none of them were known for holding back. Eliza held an affection for all of them, although Louise Ryan could be tricky and irritatingly flirtatious with the men – which included Jay, who seemed to relish it. That morning she had made a huge Bolognese that would be a filler over the weekend for hungry souls coming and going, so if they decided to eat at the pub that evening, there would be food for Juliet, their seventeen-year-old, who was quite capable of feeding herself. Their eleven-year-old daughter Holly was staying the night with a school friend, so the parents could leave Juliet to her own devices.

  At around four o’clock, Eliza left the office and her distracted husband to cross the fifty-odd metres to Manor Farm Barn. She rapped on the door and entered at the same time.

  Her mother’s elderly fawn pug Mildred danced over to greet Eliza, her front legs high-stepping, her bottom wiggling its corkscrew tail in delight. Eliza bent down and made a fuss of her. Annie’s sparky blue eyes vanished into crinkly slits across her face and a broad smile spread across it as she got up from her ancient yellow armchair. The stiffness evident in her movement, she gave her daughter a bear hug before going into her kitchen to switch on the kettle. A feeling of release went through Eliza’s body and she felt her shoulders drop. It felt good to bask in the absolute love of her mother’s warmth, and her exasperation with the situation she and Jay were going through temporarily melted away.

  She watched her mother’s painful progress and reflected that lately she seemed to have aged. It wasn’t the short white hair that gave this impression – she’d had that for the last ten years – it was more about the way she looked and moved. “Your back’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “No, no, not that bad, just a bit stiff when I garden, that’s all.”

  Typical of her mother, who deliberately avoided the reality of ageing. Eliza may have understood why once so remarkable a force would find it hard to come to terms with the fact, but it was still irritating. Besides, it was more than likely to be arthritis that could be treated.

  In a firm tone she said, “Mum, go and see Edward. He’ll give you something for it.” Edward Gordon, the village doctor had been at Heronsford surgery for as long as Eliza could remember. He was a family friend and when his wife had died of a brain tumour, Annie had been one of the kinder and more reliable people to have helped get him through a dreadful time.

  “You’re quite right. I’ve been meaning to, it’s just a matter of getting around to it.”

  “I’m ringing him on Monday morning and taking you to see him next week. It’s so silly to suffer unnecessarily. I’ll bring some ibuprofen over, it should help ease the ache.”

  “You know I’m not keen on pills, darling–”

  Her daughter interrupted her, “That’s plain silly, Mum. You’re in pain and that’s what they are for.”

  “All right, well maybe I’ll try one. I promise I’ll call Edward myself and see him next week.”

  “Take two…” said Eliza, “…and good.”

  Relaxing on the scruffy old blue floral sofa that had once been in the farm sitting room and part of her life since she could remember, Eliza scanned the old pale grey and light-brown oak rafters that curved up to meet in the middle of the barn ceiling. The strains of Yo-yo Ma playing Bach filled the high space with a mournful glory. An ancient cello propped against a corner wall advertised the fact that he
r mother, something of a hobby cellist herself, was a devotee of the instrument. She still played sometimes. It was silently acknowledged among others that she was no virtuoso. In fact, hearing her play could make for difficult listening to both trained and untrained ears. Once heard, it was unusual for repeat requests. But the old girl did so love it, which was after all the point.

  Her mother often got on her nerves. Eliza convinced herself it was largely because they now lived so close and saw so much of one another. The reality was that throughout her life as an adult, refusing to see it, Eliza had actually felt split between a deep love for and a sense of distance from and difference to the only parent she’d had since her father had died when she was fifteen. It had never been easy having a mother praised by all, who was both more academic and more useful to others than her daughter believed she could ever have hoped to be.

  Her occasional irritation had grown worse these days. Seeing her mother slowly declining before her eyes uncovered a fear within her she had no desire to acknowledge. Perhaps it was her mother’s innate strength that she was scared of losing. This had, after all, pulled her through the grief of losing her father.

  Annie handed her a plate of Rich Tea biscuits. They were the only ones she ever bought. She considered the rest an extravagance. Although she really didn’t like them, Eliza took one to gratify. She noticed that, unusually, her mum didn’t.