The Sting of Death

by Rebecca Tope

  Next morning the police came for him, requesting politely that he accompany them to the station to make a statement. They were solicitous, accompanying him gently in and out of the car, bringing him a mug of tea. But the questions were pointed.

  ‘Could you please describe the exact nature of your relationship with Miss Strabinski?’

  ‘How long were you intending to remain at the hotel?’

  ‘Did you see anybody you recognised while staying there?’

  ‘Please tell us, in your own words, precisely what happened between two-fifteen and two-thirty-five on Saturday afternoon.’

  Hesitantly, Laurie talked them through those long twenty minutes. He’d gone to the lavatory first, on the ground floor, a little way from the lounge. Then he’d waited for the lift because Penn’s room was on the second floor. It had been slow in arriving. There had been three people coming down in it. He had also heard voices on the stairs. There were still people coming out of the dining-room, too. In short, the hotel was relatively bustling.

  He did not have a key to Penn’s room – of course he hadn’t. Why would he? So he knocked, gently at first, thinking she might be asleep, not wanting to give her a rude awakening. When she did not reply, he tried the handle and found the door unlocked …’

  At this point, Hemsley looked up and frowned. ‘Don’t hotel doors lock themselves automatically when closed?’ he asked the officer sitting next to him.

  ‘Not at the Elmcroft,’ Laurie said robustly. ‘You have to turn the key on the outside. Too many people lock themselves out, otherwise. You have to remember we’re talking about Bournemouth, where practically everyone is over eighty.’

  Hemsley smiled tightly, and waved for Laurie to continue his account. Quite slowly, he explained, he had pushed the door open, calling Penn’s name, wondering why she wasn’t answering. The room had a short shadowy corridor between the door and the main area, where the bathroom had been added. He had assumed initially that she must be in the bathroom and therefore unable to hear him. He’d even tapped on the open door and called her name again. Only then had he stepped towards the bed and seen her. He thought she was asleep – obviously that was what he thought. But her eyes were open, her mouth drooling, her arms flung out. People didn’t sleep like that. He’d approached her, with his head spinning with the impossibility of what he was seeing. He’d poked her, then shaken her, then lifted her up and tried to waken her.

  He could tell no more than that. The rest was already documented. The rest they already knew.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ they said. ‘We’ll just have that transcribed, if you’d wait a few minutes, and then perhaps you could read and sign it for us.’

  At 9 a.m., Maggs was trying to read, out in the garden, her mobile close beside her. Her mother had been astonished at her early rising. ‘But it’s Sunday!’ she’d protested. ‘You never get up before eleven on a Sunday, unless Drew calls you out.’

  ‘I’m going out,’ Maggs explained. ‘I hope.’ She gave her mobile a little shake as if to ensure it was still working. ‘But not with Drew.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Oh, I see. Why do girls still wait for the man to make the call? Hasn’t feminism made any headway at all?’

  ‘Because,’ Maggs explained tightly, ‘you have to be sure he wants to go out with you. And that’s the only way to do it. If I called him and persuaded him to do something he didn’t really want to, I’d regret it later. Some things are best left the way they are.’

  ‘Well it shouldn’t have to be so complicated. And one-sided. It all seems ridiculously unfair to me.’

  The phone beeped and Maggs’s whole demeanour changed. She read the message in silence.

  ‘Well?’ her mother demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Maggs frowned. ‘I think I’m supposed to wait for further developments or something. He says he’s busy.’

  ‘You could go back to bed,’ her mother suggested.

  But Maggs remained in the garden, leaving her mother to get on with her regular Sunday routine of seeing to all the house plants. There were at least a hundred, on every windowsill and several other surfaces, and they all needed their dead leaves removing, or their aphids destroying, or a new pot, as well as a good drink of enriched water. It all took well over an hour.

  The phone warbled before she quite reached the point of despair. Den’s voice came strongly down the airwaves as if he was standing next to her. ‘Seaside then,’ he said. ‘Is your cozzie packed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll be there just after eleven.’

  ‘You’re sure you can find it?’ Had she even given him her address, she wondered?

  ‘Escott Way, Bradbourne, right? You told me when we were in the pub.’

  ‘Did I? I’ll wait outside for you. Number 42.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  They went to Weston-super-Mare and spent hours on the pier, then paddled, and sunbathed and talked and walked. They held hands, and then kissed and cuddled on the grey sand, oblivious of the families and couples and ice cream sellers all around them.

  They spoke seriously about global warming and pollution and the future of the planet. They giggled over anecdotes concerning their mothers and the folly parents are prone to. They did not mention funerals or murders. Den showed her his trick of bending his legs until his feet were on his shoulders. She showed him her doublejointed thumbs. He built her a castle of stones and shells, which she decorated lavishly with seaweed.

  They ate scampi and chips at a kiosk and then drank Bass in a nearby pub. He drove her home at ten, each of them wondering how time could possibly pass so quickly.

  ‘Tomorrow the police will have to interview you about Penn Strabinski,’ he said regretfully as they sat in the car outside her house. ‘It won’t be me – I’m too far away.’

  ‘Don’t talk about that,’ she flashed. ‘Don’t spoil the day.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He stroked her cheek wistfully. ‘I’ll phone you. Early. You and Drew.’

  ‘Fine,’ she nodded, before sinking into one last long goodnight kiss.

  Monday was different in countless ways. Maggs looked at Drew, the burial field, the sparse settlement that was North Staverton, with completely new eyes.

  ‘Right,’ she said, as soon as she was in the office. ‘This is the first day of the rest of our lives. You know that, don’t you?’ She regarded Drew sternly. ‘We need to sort this Penn Strabinski business out, once and for all. It’s getting in the way. It’s making Den depressed.’

  ‘And we can’t have that, can we?’ Drew tried to keep his tone light. ‘So how are we going to do it, then?’

  ‘He’s going to call this morning. We’ll have to be interviewed again.’

  ‘Obviously, now they’ve got the post-mortem results.’

  Den’s call came at nine-thirty, and Drew handed the receiver to Maggs. She conversed for ten minutes, while Drew diplomatically removed himself to the field. She came to find him, eyes sparkling.

  ‘Listen to this!’ she cried. ‘They want to interview us both again, you first, then me. Den and his boss, Danny, are coming up here later on …’

  Drew interrupted impatiently. ‘Maggs, there’s work to do here. Look at all these letters. We’ve got to send accounts out for last week, and another reminder for the Grants. I’m officiating at the crem tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten. I should really have gone to see the family on Friday. I’ll have to go today.’

  ‘You mean you forgot them until now,’ she accused.

  ‘Sort of,’ he admitted. ‘They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘I seem to remember you grumbling about vicars who left it till the last minute,’ she said.

  ‘OK, OK. Anyway, I’ll go this morning. You’ll have to hold the fort here.’

  ‘Fine, so long as you’re back by twelve. It’ll all fit perfectly well, don’t fuss. Although I might have to make a few phone calls. Drew – you realise how seriously involved we are with the
police case, don’t you? You don’t seem to have taken it on board.’

  He leant towards her in mock earnestness. ‘Maggs, believe me, I am deeply serious about it. But I’m even more serious about my livelihood here. I know I can be of no further help to the police, and I don’t intend to make any more attempts to solve the case single-handedly without them.’

  ‘Double-handedly, you mean.’

  ‘But if you want to keep on at it, I’m not stopping you. I haven’t forgotten that it was me who brought you in on it in the first place. And now you’ve got such a personal commitment to it as well …’ he clasped his hands together in a parody of congratulatory ardour, ‘… who am I to get in your way?’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘Or I won’t tell you what else Den told me.’

  ‘I haven’t got time to listen now, anyway,’ he said. ‘Wait until I get back.’

  Over a lunch of bread, cheese, salad and fruit, provided by Karen, Maggs filled him in on the rest of Den’s information. ‘Penn was injected into the heart with some kind of local anaesthetic. The sort they use on animals.’

  ‘Did she do it herself?’

  ‘Doubtful, they think.’ She watched his face, wondering how much attention she was getting, and finding the answer unsatisfactory.

  ‘Drew, I’ve got a few ideas as to what might have happened. Not just to Penn, but the little girl as well. Do you want to hear them?’

  He chewed for a moment. ‘Go on, then.’

  She was interrupted before she could start. A car pulled up outside the office and two uniformed policemen emerged from it. ‘Here we go,’ Drew realised. ‘Time for your interview. Or did you say I was to go first?’

  ‘You first. Don’t worry, mate, I’ll see yer all right,’ she growled. ‘Every visiting day, without fail – I’ll be right there, with yer favourite cakes.’

  ‘Don’t let the children forget me,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Not a chance. We’ll sit them in front of the video where you’re burying that old vagrant, every blessed day. Don’t you worry about that.’

  The police were at the door. Drew struggled for composure as he opened it. Maggs was snorting behind him. ‘This is very generous of you,’ he said. ‘Providing transport, I mean.’

  ‘All part of the service, sir,’ said one of the men genially. ‘We’re to use the Taunton office, for convenience. It’s a long way from here to Okehampton. All we need is a statement and a signature.’

  ‘And you’re bringing me back, then collecting Miss Beacon?’ He could hardly believe the trouble they were taking.

  ‘That’s it, sir. No sense in disrupting your business if we can avoid it.’

  Maggs watched them go and then tapped in another text to Den.

  How goes it? I have ideas. Ring me, office, soon.

  Cooper and Timms spent most of Monday morning in Crediton. Den’s mood, like Maggs’s, was transformed. ‘What’s happened to you?’ Bennie marvelled, as he whistled in the car.

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Had a nice day at the seaside yesterday, that’s all.’

  This time they used the keys that had been found in Penn’s handbag and let themselves into the small terraced house. No neighbours appeared to challenge them, and nothing stirred once they were inside.

  Wearing rubber gloves, they rapidly examined every room. In the living room, Den lifted the phone and keyed 1471. It had become standard procedure in recent years, with sometimes remarkably helpful results. He stared at the number he’d jotted down, with the date and time beside it. ‘She doesn’t get many calls,’ he commented. ‘This goes back to the middle of last week.’

  ‘Everyone uses mobiles these days,’ Bennie said. ‘Presumably her friends all know she’s away.

  Den continued to stare at the number. ‘It looks familiar.’ He fished out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. ‘Yes! It’s Gladcombe Farm.’

  ‘The Rentons or Justine?’

  ‘Rentons. Justine’s cottage hasn’t got a phone.’

  He then pressed the Redial button for good measure. The phone was answered promptly. ‘Elmcroft Hotel. How may I help you?’ chirruped a female voice.

  ‘Oh!’ Den feigned surprise, thinking quickly. ‘Is that the Elmcroft Hotel in Edinburgh?’

  ‘No, sir. We’re in Bournemouth.’

  ‘Oh dear. Silly me. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Bennie demanded.

  ‘She called the hotel, that’s all. Nothing very surprising about that, I suppose.’

  There was nothing untoward about the contents of the house downstairs. It was uncluttered, tidy, much as Den remembered it from his earlier visit to Penn. Upstairs they found a supply of contraceptive pills in three unopened packs. ‘We knew she was on the Pill,’ said Bennie. ‘There was half a pack in her handbag.’

  ‘How thorough are we being?’ Den asked, never happy about rifling through personal belongings.

  ‘Fairly. Letters-and-diaries thorough, but not dirty-washing-and-dustbins,’ she suggested.

  ‘Right.’ They opened drawers and cupboards, looked under the bed, reached up to the top of the wardrobe and medicine cabinet, opened jewellery boxes and suitcases. They found in a small overnight bag a meagre collection of letters, minus envelopes, held together by a rubber band. Also in the bag was a long T-shirt of the sort used for bed, a pair of socks, a bottle of expensive perfume and a toothbrush in a plastic bag.

  There were five letters in total, each one only a single sheet of notepaper. They were unsigned, undated and with no address.

  Should be fine for Wednesday. J has to go into town. We’ll have plenty of time, sweetheart, and can use the house for a change. I know it might be awkward for you to get away, but you can say you’re sick, can’t you? Roll on the holidays, eh!

  You won’t need to nag me about you know what, either, because I’ve got a plan. I’ve been speaking to a chap who’s just back from Krakow and says my ideas would work out fine. So we’ll get there yet, you just see. You know I want it as much as you do – it’s just that these things take time.

  Sorry it’s been so long. Not my fault, honestly. I’ll make up for it on Wednesday, with knobs on. Don’t forget to leave the car in the usual place.

  ‘It’s an assignation,’ said Bennie unnecessarily. ‘It looks quite recent. Not at all faded, anyway.’

  ‘Where’s Krakow?’

  ‘Poland, I think.’

  ‘Her father’s Polish,’ Den remembered. ‘It couldn’t possibly be from him, could it?’

  Bennie’s eyes widened. ‘Hardly,’ she spluttered, before reading it again. ‘Well,’ she amended, ‘it doesn’t actually mention sex in so many words, does it.’

  ‘And people do sometimes have sex with their fathers,’ Den said conscientiously. Bennie slapped his arm and made a hissing sound. ‘Sorry,’ he grinned.

  ‘We can use the house for a change,’ Bennie murmured. ‘It certainly sounds like sex. But it could just as easily be a game of ping-pong, or making bait for fly fishing, or …’

  ‘Trimming bonsai trees or framing pictures,’ Den contributed. ‘Or about five million other things.’

  ‘It sounds like sex to me,’ said Bennie.

  ‘Why didn’t the bugger sign it?’ Den grumbled. ‘Better have a look at the others.’

  The other letters were even briefer and all named a day and a time for a meeting. Endearments were sprinkled liberally and one made reference to a ‘delicious perfume’.

  ‘It has to be a married man, scared to use the phone because everything’s itemised, waiting for a moment when the wife is sure to be out,’ Bennie concluded.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Den said. ‘So I wonder who J is.’

  He phoned Maggs as soon as he read her latest message. ‘We found some letters at Penn’s house,’ he told her, well aware that he was breaching strict rules of procedure. ‘Love letters, by the look of them, arranging meetings that sound like … er … well, a love affair. Possibly wi
th a married man. Mentions a person called “J”. That’s it, basically. You realise I shouldn’t be telling you. Bennie was with me this morning, so I couldn’t phone then.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she forgave him lingeringly. ‘Now listen to this—’ she confided several of her thoughts and some of her intentions. He shivered at her courage and sheer youthful energy.

  ‘I almost wish you hadn’t told me any of that,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to pretend I never knew about it, if it goes wrong. I suppose I don’t need to tell you not to take any silly risks? And keep me posted.’

  ‘No, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  His responding laugh was half-hearted and she was left wondering whether he was always so melancholy or only when he had a new girlfriend.

  Den was left in an agonising dilemma, torn between his duties as a police officer and his profound admiration and awe in the face of Maggs’s outrageous plans.

  Immediately after work, having sailed through her police interview with perfect composure, Maggs went on her motorcycle to Roma Millan’s in Pitcombe. She trotted up the path as if she was one of the family.

  ‘Come on, both of you,’ she ordered Roma and Justine. ‘We’re going out. Bring a camera and a tape recorder if you’ve got one. And some sort of bell or whistle. Something that makes a really loud noise.’

  ‘Tape recorder?’ Roma looked blank. ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘There’s the video camera,’ Laurie suggested. ‘The one the boys gave me for Christmas. The battery might be flat, though.’ While he fetched it, Roma produced a large handbell from a cupboard. ‘Laurie uses this to summon me down from the field,’ she grinned.

  The little red light on the video camera advised them that the battery was alive and well, and Maggs grabbed it enthusiastically. ‘Great!’ she crowed. ‘The very thing.’

  Roma drove, with Maggs next to her and Justine in the back. Maggs spent the entire journey coaching them in what they were going to do. At first Justine protested, partly afraid, partly appalled by the strength of Maggs’s argument.