Thicker Than Water

by Anthea Fraser

  For some reason, probably born of frustration, this setback to my plans increased my hostility towards Abigail. I kept picturing her, slim, attractive and self-assured, stepping into that taxi, her mind, no doubt, full of the holiday ahead. Did she ever have sleepless nights, remembering what she, her brother and sister had done, all those years ago? I doubted it; it would have been safely buried long since, not allowed to intrude on the comfortable, successful life she now led.

  It was this mounting hatred that convinced me a few minutes’ fear prior to death was insufficient punishment; she should be made to suffer longer – have time to become really frightened that the past was, after all, catching up with her, and I passed long hours, my foot propped up in front of me, planning how best to achieve this.

  One thing I was able to do in my invalid state was to print out all the pages I’d written so far, ready for the eventual handover to Hayley, and it was as I was sifting through the material the week before school went back that I came across the postcards I’d bought in Scarthorpe.

  I stood looking at them – four different views but each featuring the lake – and realized I’d found my answer. I would send one to Abigail – no message, just her name and address. The picture alone should put the fear of God into her, but first I needed that address, which would entail another visit to London. This time, though, I’d phone before I went, to make sure she wasn’t off on another of her jaunts.

  So I went back to school, and, at opening assembly, reflected bitterly that I was no further forward than at the end of last term. But I would get them, I vowed to myself, all three of them, no matter what obstacles lay in my way, or how long it took. Because there’d be no peace of mind for me now until all three of them were dead.

  My ankle, still fragile, curtailed my activities both in the gym and on the football pitch, but it was strengthening all the time, and by October would be fully operational – no worries about that.

  I delayed phoning till half-term had started, to make certain she’d be there before I set out. But when, having identified myself as Gary Payne, I asked for Abigail, I was stunned to hear she no longer worked there. Panic washed over me. Would I have to start looking all over again?

  ‘She’s sold the business?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that, but now she’s married, she’ll be working from home.’

  ‘Married?’ I echoed blankly.

  ‘Yes, ten days ago. She’s on her honeymoon at the moment, but they’ll be home on Saturday.’

  I said the first thing that came into my head, though it turned out to be my Open Sesame.

  ‘But – she said she’d never marry!’ That’s what Liza had told me.

  The receptionist laughed. ‘You obviously know her well! That’s what she always said, yes, but then James came along and swept her off her feet. They met and married in the space of six weeks.’

  ‘James . . . ?’

  ‘Markham. He works in IT, I believe.’

  ‘Well, this is a surprise. Could you let me have her number?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Payne, we don’t give out personal information.’

  ‘But surely to friends . . . ?’

  ‘Sorry. Company policy.’

  ‘So how will her clients contact her?’

  ‘Through this office. She’ll be coming over once a month, but we’ll be in daily contact, with emails and phone calls. You won’t notice any difference in service.’

  I thought furiously. How could I improve my credentials sufficiently to get the number out of her? Again I struck lucky, by repeating the question I’d asked Liza.

  ‘Did her aunt fly over for the wedding?’

  The girl’s voice sobered. ‘Mrs Firbank? No, that was very sad; she died during the summer, before Abigail and James met, so she never even knew about him. She’d have been so happy to see her married.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Then, wheedlingly, ‘And there’s no way you can give me her number?’

  ‘We can’t make exceptions, sir, really.’

  ‘At least tell me what town she’ll be living in.’

  She hesitated. ‘Well, since you’re a friend of the family, I suppose there’s no harm. It’s Inchampton, in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘Thanks very much. And if you speak to her before I do, please give her and her husband my very best wishes.’

  I sat back in my chair, glancing at the ready-packed grip by the door. So it wouldn’t be needed after all. Once again my plans were put on hold and Abigail had gained a further reprieve – this time till Christmas.

  And with the aunt’s death, Liza Jenkins would be receiving no more news of the family; she wouldn’t know Abigail was married – and nor, for that matter, would Jilly or Cal. Which meant, I reflected, that when Abigail Markham was murdered in a place called Inchampton, it would ring no alarm bells, believing as they did that their sister’s name was still Firbank, and she lived in London.

  It crossed my mind to start looking for one of them, rather than let half-term go to waste; but I’d been concentrating on Abigail for the past five months, and there was no way I could move on until I’d dealt with her. And once I’d found out her address, I could at least dispatch the postcard.

  James Markham . . . I switched on Google, typed in Telephone Directory, and scrolled down till I came to Residential Numbers – the BT Phone Book. Then, in the box marked Surname, I wrote Markham, and in the space for location, Inchampton. And, lo and behold, I was looking at the entry I wanted: J A Markham, his phone number and his address: 4a The Square, Inchampton. I was even able to click on a map showing the exact location.

  Giving fervent thanks to the inventor of the Internet, I logged off and went for a much-needed drink.

  It was unbelievable how long it was taking to track down Abigail, but at least it had taught me patience. To Patty’s delight, I took her, on the spur of the moment, to North Wales, and even enjoyed walking along the cold, wind-blown beaches, watching the clouds rushing across the sky, and trying out my ankle on the less-steep slopes. The surrounding hills and water brought Scarthorpe to mind, but this was a different landscape and held no memories for me.

  At Patty’s instigation, we did some Christmas shopping in Llandudno, went to the cinema a couple of times, and explored the surrounding countryside. It was not how I’d planned to spend half-term, but it was a pleasant enough break. And, I promised myself grimly, Christmas was coming.

  We broke up on the nineteenth of December, and the next day I set off in the car for the Cotswolds. It was a tight schedule; there’d be hell to pay if I wasn’t back to spend Christmas with the family, but that was in the lap of the gods. I was determined not to return until I’d despatched Abigail Markham.

  The journey down was horrendous – heavy traffic, and lashing rain all the way. By the time I reached Cheltenham, daylight had almost gone and I was in any case too tired and dispirited to drive on to Inchampton. I’d booked into a boarding house, and after lying on my bed for an hour, exhilarated by the closeness of my prey, I went down for ‘supper’ – home-made steak and kidney pie, followed by tinned peaches and cream – and then, in the grandiosely named television lounge, settled into a comfortable chair and let the moving wallpaper wash over me.

  The next day, Sunday, it was still raining. James would be home, of course, but I could at least scout out the land, so I duly set off for Inchampton, thankful for the plastic raincoat I’d bought with quite another purpose in mind.

  I managed, after some difficulty, to find a meter near the town centre, and set off on foot for the square, where I found, to my surprise, that Number 4a appeared to be a flat above a café. Not what I’d expected of Miss High and Mighty.

  Furthermore, as I saw at once, it was bad news; I’d been imagining a house and garden, set back from the road, where I could have forced my way inside when she answered the door. But this door opened directly on to the pavement, and the square itself was thronged with people; any pushing could
hardly go unnoticed. Also, with the café directly below, someone might hear if she screamed.

  I’d have to rethink my plan. In the meantime, to get out of the rain, I went into the café, ordered coffee and a mince pie, and sat down at a window table. But it was a wasted ploy; no one emerged from the next doorway, and my lengthy presence began to attract notice. I moved instead to a pub across the square, from where I had a view of the flat’s windows. A light was on; no doubt they were having a cosy weekend at home. I couldn’t blame them, and halfway through the afternoon, cut my losses and drove back to Cheltenham.

  The next two days were a miserable repetition, and I was getting desperate. The heavy rain continued, and Abigail did not emerge from the flat. And then it was Christmas Eve. I couldn’t go home with nothing accomplished, watch Jade open her stocking and eat turkey as though all was right with my world.

  A watery sun had finally come through, and I hoped fervently that it would tempt her outdoors. But yet again, there was no sign. My parking meter had expired, and I resignedly got into the car to search – no doubt in vain – for another space. Then a thought struck me: where did the vans park to unload supplies to the café and other shops along that side of the square? There had to be an access road behind. I investigated, and, sure enough, came across it. Furthermore, I could see a space halfway along. I swerved into the alleyway and parked, realizing I must be directly behind the Markham flat.

  And as I switched off the engine, unbelievably, Abigail herself came hurrying round the corner, and stopped at a car a few feet from mine. One of the men unloading a van called across to her, and she called back. Then she got into the car and drove slowly out of the alley. Heart in mouth, I followed her, wondering where she was going. If it was to someone’s house, I’d have to find a way of intercepting her before she arrived.

  She turned right towards the crowded square and negotiated her way slowly through it, turning left at the T-junction. This wasn’t the Cheltenham road, and I couldn’t see a signpost. All I could do was follow her, and await my chance.

  Within minutes we were in open country, a narrow lane with no room to manoeuvre. Beyond the hedgerows a wet mist hovered, screening the grass. A couple of cars overtook first me and then Abigail, dangerously near a bend. I stayed a fair distance behind, heart clattering, mouth dry.

  A pub was coming up on the right, and she began to slow down. Was she going in? If so, I’d have to ambush her in the car park. But she continued past it, and I was taken by surprise when she suddenly signalled left and swerved into a narrow lane. I drew up just short of the turning and waited. It would be too obvious to follow her straight away – she might take fright.

  After a couple of minutes, I nosed gently forward, and, to my amazement, saw her car barely a hundred yards away, alongside a stone wall. As far as I could tell there was no one in it, but as I cautiously drew nearer, I saw a gap in the wall where a gate had once been. It was filled with nettles and weeds, but they’d been trampled down to give access. God alone knew what Abigail was doing here, but there was no prize for guessing where she’d gone.

  I drew a deep breath. My tools were to hand, as they’d been since leaving home: recorder, knife, clothes line, confession. At very long last, her Nemesis had caught up with her.

  I slid into place behind her car, and, having pushed my way through the brambles, was faced by row after row of wizened old apple trees. A derelict orchard, by the look of it. What the hell . . . ?

  The rain had started again, and I pulled up my collar. Then I saw her, just ahead of me, reaching up into a tree, and realized what she was after. Mistletoe! Absorbed in her task, she was completely unaware of my presence until, moving cautiously forward, I stepped on a twig that snapped beneath my weight – the echo of a long-ago snap that had startled three children.

  She’d frozen at the sound, her hands motionless on the branch.

  ‘Hello, Abby,’ I said softly.

  Slowly, fearfully, she turned to face me, her grip tightening on the secateurs – a weapon of sorts.

  ‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’

  Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  ‘Bryan Spencer, the gardener’s boy.’

  Her eyes widened and she made a choking sound, one hand going to her throat. Not so self-assured now, my lady!

  ‘The gardener,’ I went on deliberately, ‘who killed himself because of what you did.’

  Her skin had paled to the colour of old linen. ‘It was you?’ she whispered. ‘Who sent the postcard?’

  I nodded, pleased she’d made the connection. ‘I heard you all that day,’ I continued, ‘you and Cal and Jilly. Plotting to sabotage the car.’

  Her knees began to buckle and she slid an inch or two down the tree trunk, hands flattening against the bark behind her as the secateurs slipped from her grasp.

  ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘Yes. But what’s even worse in my eyes, you let my father die—’

  She stretched out a hand pleadingly. ‘No, not that, really! We’d already left—’

  ‘You should have owned up when he was arrested. He was claustrophobic, and he killed himself rather than be shut up in prison.’

  The horror in her eyes seemed genuine. ‘We didn’t know that,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘But unfortunately sorry won’t bring him back. The least he deserves is a posthumous pardon.’

  ‘Yes,’ she gabbled. ‘Of course! Anything we can—’

  She stopped, her eyes on the recorder I’d suddenly produced. I passed it to her, and she automatically took it.

  ‘And here’s how we go about it.’ I took the prepared sheet from an inside pocket, opened it out, and handed it over. ‘I’d like you to read this into the recorder.’

  She nodded, moistening her lips, then flinched as I stepped forward. But all I did was switch on the machine, containing a brand new tape specially for the occasion.

  ‘Right,’ I said, and, her voice shaking, she began.

  ‘I, Abigail Markham, née Poole, formerly Firbank’ (that left no room for doubt, I reckoned) – ‘wish to make the following statement in the presence of a witness: that, on the twenty-fifth of June, 1985, I conspired, together with my brother and sister, to put gravel taken from the garden shed into the brake-fluid of my stepfather, Harold Sheridan’s car, causing the crash that killed both him and our mother. And I further state that by not admitting our guilt, we are also responsible for the death of Jack Spencer, who was claustrophobic and who, having been wrongly arrested for their murder, committed suicide rather than be locked up in prison. I swear the above to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’

  She came to the end, and there was silence, except for the whirring of the tape and the pattering of the rain on the leaves above us. I’d taken a lot of time perfecting that statement, and I was pleased with it. It covered everything, and while she’d been reading it, I’d pulled on a pair of skin-tight surgical gloves and was now ready with the knife.

  For a moment longer her eyes remained on the paper, and in that moment, I pounced. She’d barely time to gasp before my left hand seized her hood, jerking her head back as my right drove the knife into her exposed throat. Immediately, hot, red blood spurted out, covering my gloved hand, the confession – appropriately enough – and the plastic raincoat.

  In the same instant I withdrew the knife and leaped back, watching, mesmerized, as, her head lolling forward and the blood continuing to stream, she slid the remainder of the way down the tree trunk.

  Breathing heavily, I wiped the blade and my bloodied hands on the ground. The recorder had fallen clear, and I retrieved it before taking the clothes line, with its ready-prepared noose, from my pocket, and flinging it over the branch she’d been plundering.

  Slipping the noose round her neck was a messier business than I’d anticipated, as it kept slipping on the wet blood that continued to gush everywhere. Eventually, though, I managed to tighten it and, cho
king down growing nausea, hoisted her up, supporting her body between my own and the tree and pulling on the rope until her feet were just above the ground.

  I only just made it before I had to stumble aside and vomit violently into the bushes.

  And now, I thought, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, for the finishing touch. It had occurred to me before leaving home that Abigail’s death mustn’t be considered just another everyday murder. It had to be significant from day one, branded with my signature.

  So I took from my pocket the last of the ‘tools’ I’d brought with me; one of the Scarthorpe postcards. Her husband was sure to remember the first, and it would give them all something to think about. Steeling myself, I reached up and tucked it into the pocket of her anorak.

  Then I stepped back, looking at her hanging there, and shaken by a hundred different emotions.

  ‘For you, Dad,’ I said aloud. ‘One down, two to go.’

  Twenty-one

  God knows how I managed to drive back to Manchester. Though the heater was going full blast, I was icily cold, and every now and then violent shudders shook me, rattling my teeth so that I repeatedly bit my tongue. My mind was totally disengaged, but thankfully my body performed all that was required of it on auto-pilot. I kept reliving the moment the knife went in, and wondering when she’d be found, if anyone had known she was there, who would find her. A nice Christmas present for someone. Not that I’d intended it as such; if all had gone according to plan, she’d have died during the summer, before she was even married.

  Mentally, I went through a checklist: the knife, wiped clean, was in my jacket pocket, together with the recorder. The plastic mac, though the rain had sluiced off most of the blood, was in a carrier bag in the boot, together with the surgical gloves and the sodden confession, ready to be disposed of separately at the earliest opportunity. All that remained in the orchard was the limp body hanging from the tree, and the blood already soaking away into the ground. All was well.