by Frank Smith
Andrea McMillan belonged to a more recent part of his life. A very short part, he thought bitterly. He’d been an idiot to let her go.
But it hadn’t been his decision to make, had it? It was Andrea’s decision to leave, and he couldn’t blame her. Life could be cruel, he thought bitterly. No, not just cruel. Life could be vicious! First Jill, then Andrea. No one’s fault; no one to blame except fate. Or God. But where was the satisfaction in that?
And where, he wondered, was Andrea now?
SEVENTEEN
Wednesday 10th April
MOONLIGHT FILTERED through the ragged clouds and made patterns on the window. Emily Tyson flung the blanket aside and pushed herself upright on the bed. She was fully dressed right down to her thick-soled shoes. She slid off the bed and gasped at the pain as her feet hit the floor. She breathed deeply, girding herself for the task ahead. Slowly, she made her way across the room to the door, her two stout sticks silent on the tiles for once as she placed each tip carefully ahead of her.
Tom’s coat was there as it always was on the peg behind the door. She propped herself against the wall and struggled with the coat, almost crying out with pain as she forced her arms into the sleeves and pulled the coat around her.
She managed the buttons without too much trouble, but the door was hard. Reaching up to undo the top bolt was almost too much, but it gave way at the very last second, and she fell back against the wall to rest until the pain subsided.
Emily Tyson closed the door behind her. The night air was cold, but she raised her face to it and breathed it in. It felt good to be outside. So long. So very long.
But there was work to do. She placed one stick ahead of the other and began the long, slow journey, eyes fixed firmly ahead.
In the darkened bedroom above, Tom Tyson stirred uneasily in the big bed where he had slept alone for so many years. Perhaps it was a dream, perhaps it was a sound carried on the breeze from the partly open window, but it was there, deep inside his troubled mind.
Thud!… Thud!… Thud!… Thud!…
* * *
PETER FOSTER couldn’t sleep. He wandered from room to room, unable to settle to anything. Constance had telephoned again. Shrieking epithets as usual.
‘I gave up my life for her, you odious little bastard,’ she screamed at him. ‘I worked—I slaved for her, pushed her, made her what she is. She’d have been nothing without me behind her. And she had ten more years ahead of her. Ten more years! And she threw it all away on you!’
Her voice dropped. ‘And you killed her, didn’t you? You couldn’t stand the thought of her being with another man, could you?’ Unexpectedly, she laughed. ‘If only you’d known how many men she’d had, you stupid little man. Do you think you climb that ladder on good looks alone?’
He could hear her gathering breath for another onslaught, and he felt the blood draining from his face. Furious, he slammed the phone down. ‘I hope it breaks your bloody eardrum!’ he yelled at the silent instrument.
Her words echoed in his head as he stood there now in the darkened room. From the stand of trees across the road came the eerie hooting of an owl, and he pictured it swooping on silent wings to scoop up some small animal foolish enough to venture out at night. That’s what he was waiting for, he thought. They would come along and scoop him up soon. It was only a matter of time.
He wandered back upstairs and opened the large wardrobe. Lisa’s clothes were still there. He felt the softness of them; buried his face in them. They smelt of her.
As if in slow motion, Foster took out the dresses one by one and tore them into shreds.
* * *
THE LAND SLOPED gently upward from the river, but to Emily Tyson it felt more like a mountain. She rested for a moment, sucking in the cold night air and praying for the strength to carry on. Her frail legs trembled and she longed to rest, but she must go on. She must! She fixed her eyes firmly on the outline of the barn. Not far now. Not far.
She thrust her body forward; stick first, then the leg; stick first, then the other leg; stick first …
The barn loomed over her, blocking out the moon. Exhausted, Emily Tyson leaned against the wall, panting hard. She had no conscious memory of the last hundred yards. Only pain. Every muscle screamed in agony; every drop of blood coursing through her veins shrieked in protest; but with it came the knowledge that soon it would be over.
The door was on the latch. She eased it open carefully, stopping short as she saw the light. It puzzled her. There shouldn’t be a light inside the barn. Very carefully, she opened the door wider.
The heater. Wouldn’t you just know it. There was that great hulking boy asleep and he’d left the heater on. A waste, that’s what it was; a waste. Tom always was too soft, especially with the boy. He’d always favoured him; always stood up for him.
Rage welled up inside her as she thrust her deformed body forward, the heavy sticks thudding into the hard-packed earth. The boy stirred in his sleep; moved uneasily as if sensing what was about to happen. His mother reached him; stood over him, stick raised high …
The stick came slashing down, aimed at Eric’s unprotected head. It came down hard, but Emily all but lost her balance at the last moment and it landed on his shoulder. A sound burst from him as he came awake, eyes wild as consciousness struggled to return. A second blow slashed across his ear and he howled with pain.
‘Devil’s spawn!’ his mother shrieked as she slashed at him again. ‘Down on your knees! Down!’ Spittle flew from her mouth as she swung the heavy stick again and again while Eric struggled to free himself from the blankets and stagger to his feet. The blankets fell free and he flung his hands over his head to ward off the rain of blows.
His childlike mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening. It didn’t occur to him to fight back. He must have done something terribly wrong, but he didn’t know what it was. But he must obey his mother. His father had made him promise long ago that he would always obey his mother.
He sank to his knees, but the blows continued to fall. He didn’t know what to do. The end of one of the sticks sliced across his hand and the blood streamed down his face. He sank lower, whimpering like a dog. Where was his father? Why didn’t he come?
The thing before her refused to die. She had to kill it; had to destroy the thing that had cursed their house; cursed their life; subjected her to a life of pain. In fury, she raised both sticks and swung them hard …
She didn’t realize she’d fallen until it was too late. Hardly felt the searing flash of pain as she fell backwards across the heater.
She screamed as fire engulfed her. Paraffin spread across the floor, the straw exploded into flame, and she felt the air sucked out of her as the fire swept toward the walls. She struggled to get up, but she couldn’t move. There was no air, and her lungs were burning …
* * *
PETER FOSTER thought it must be the moon at first. Standing there in the midst of a pile of shredded clothing, he felt drained. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he was barely conscious of the flickering light. It was only when he turned toward the window that he saw the blaze atop the hill.
He stood there, stunned, uncomprehending for a moment. The old barn was going up in flames. He watched for perhaps a minute, fascinated by the spectacular sight, before it occurred to him that someone must have started the fire. Probably the same lot that had thrown the stone through his window. He should let somebody know.
* * *
TOM TYSON ran out of the house and up the hill toward the fire. The barn was blazing like a torch, sparks flying high into the air as pockets of trapped moisture exploded from the ancient timbers.
Emily was gone, and he knew with a terrible certainty that she was up there. Eric was up there, too. The heater. He should never have let Eric have the heater. He’d thought it would be all right. The boy was always careful; it was only around his mother that he had trouble, dropping things, breaking things. Just the same, he shouldn’t have left the heater.
&nb
sp; He pounded up the slope, boot laces slapping at his ankles. He put up his hands to shield his face from the heat as he came close to the barn. Only a burning skeleton remained. The barn was almost gone.
‘E-e-e-r-r-i-i-c,’ he called despairingly. He felt the tears streaming down his face as he cupped his hands around his mouth and called again.
He heard the sound of pounding feet, and turned to see Foster coming up the hill. ‘The fire brigade is on its way,’ Foster panted as he came up to Tyson. Belatedly, he realized what Tyson was doing as the man screamed Eric’s name again.
‘Oh, Christ!’ he said, staring at the flames in horror. If Eric was in there, there was no way he could have survived. Tyson began to run around the barn, still calling at the top of his voice, and Foster, not knowing what else to do, followed him.
They circled the barn, but there was no sign of the boy. Tyson was becoming frantic, and Foster took hold of him, afraid the man might try to run into the flames. Tyson tried to shake him off, but Foster hung on.
Lights were appearing on the hillside, and moments later the first unit of the fire brigade came bumping over the coarse grass. With it came a police car. A policeman jumped out of the car and ran toward the struggling men outlined against the fire.
‘Hold him back,’ Foster gasped. ‘He thinks his son might be in there.’
‘Bloody hell!’ The policeman grabbed Tyson, and, together, he and Foster dragged him to the police car. ‘I’m sorry,’ the constable apologized as he forced Tyson into the back of the car. ‘But there’s nothing you can do. Are you sure your son’s in there?’
Tyson put his head in his hands. ‘I think my wife might be in there as well,’ he choked.
Foster and the policeman looked at each other, then looked at the fire. ‘Bloody hell!’ the policeman breathed again, and Foster, staring at the flames, could only silently agree.
* * *
THERE WASN’T MUCH the firemen could do. By the time they had run their hoses down to the river, the barn had been reduced to a charred skeleton; still burning, but dying quickly. There was little wind, so it was merely a matter of hosing it down and keeping an eye on it for the next few hours. As for searching for anyone who might be inside, that would have to wait until the heat subsided. More lights began to appear at the bottom of the hill as people arrived in cars, awakened, no doubt, by the passing of the fire engine, and one of the policemen radioed in to ask for another car.
It was one of the firemen who found him. A fireman by the name of Stubbs. Having been called out in such a hurry, he’d not stopped for anything, and the pressure of last night’s drinking at the pub was making itself felt.
The dying fire still gave off a surprising amount of light, and Stubbs scrambled down a small gully to where clumps of bushes bordered a small stream. He stood with his back to the fire, staring out into the night.
‘Aahhh,’ he said softly as the pressure eased, and for a moment he thought he heard an echo. Not likely, he thought as he zipped up his trousers. The sound came again. A snuffling sound.
Stubbs scrambled away from the bushes and fumbled for his torch. The beam swept across the ground and stopped.
Eric Tyson lay naked, half in, half out of the stream. Even in the light of the torch, Stubbs could see the welts across his shoulders, and the blood. The boy lay hunched over, whimpering like some small animal in pain, and he shied away as Stubbs approached.
The fireman scrambled up the slope and began to run for help.
EIGHTEEN
‘ANOTHER SUSPICIOUS DEATH. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’ Alcott growled. ‘Especially with Foster within a stone’s throw of the place.’
‘He was the one who turned in the alarm,’ Tregalles pointed out. ‘And he rang Tyson.’
Alcott turned his back on the still smouldering barn and eyed the distance to Bracken Cottage. ‘What would it take?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Five minutes? Foster could have set the fire and been on the phone five minutes later.’
‘He could,’ Paget agreed, ‘but to what purpose?’
‘The woman’s dead,’ Alcott said flatly. ‘If it is Mrs Tyson,’ he added. ‘Foster’s had us on that merry-go-round before. But if it is Mrs Tyson, it could be because she saw something; knew something.’ He turned to Tregalles. ‘According to your report, the woman was very observant. Seemed to know a lot about what went on up there. She could have been holding back. Perhaps using it as a lever to get that access to the road Tyson’s been after. Or worse.’
Tregalles frowned. ‘Blackmail?’ he said. ‘I’d say that’s a nonstarter, sir.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Alcott bluntly.
Paget shot the sergeant a warning glance. Superintendent Alcott was dead set on blaming this on Foster. He might be right, but it didn’t add up to Paget. But there was no point in arguing with the man, especially at seven o’clock in the morning.
‘Sergeant Ormside is with Foster now,’ he told Alcott, ‘and I’ll be going down there myself when we’re finished here. But I think Tyson’s explanation sounds more likely. The lad has been severely beaten, and the woman appears to have been mad. We’ll know more when they’ve had a chance to examine everything in there.’
‘Mrs Tyson was violent,’ Tregalles put in. ‘She went after young Eric while I was there and Tyson had to restrain her.’
Alcott grunted. He looked unconvinced. ‘Where is Tyson now?’
‘He’s at the hospital with Eric. The boy was terrified, and the only one he’d let near him was his father. We’ll be taking a full statement from Mr Tyson later in the day.’
Charlie Dobbs, who had been pacing around the perimeter of the barn like a bird dog quartering, came over to them. He looked cold, his narrow features pinched and grey, and his hands were thrust deep inside his coat pockets.
‘There’s something back here I think you ought to see,’ he said as he drew near. ‘Don’t know what it means, yet, but I have an idea it might be connected to what happened down there.’ He nodded toward Bracken Cottage.
Alcott perked up. ‘Ah-ha!’ he said softly. ‘What did I tell you, Paget?’ He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Trust your instincts, man. Trust your instincts. What have you got, Charlie?’
‘Come and have a look for yourself.’ They followed Charlie around the barn to a ragged clump of bushes. Those closest to the barn were scorched and charred, and the leaves had either burned or fallen to the ground. A thicket of blackened twigs remained, but now that the leaves were gone, they could see a small patch of grass, now grey with ash, that lay beyond.
But that was not what drew their attention. In the middle of the grass was a mound of what had once been colourful blooms, but they too were now covered in ash. Blooms Paget recognized instantly, for there were many just like them surrounding Bracken Cottage.
It took no more than twenty minutes to lift the body from its shallow grave. That it was the body of Lisa Remington there could be little doubt. It had been wrapped carefully in a sheet and a blanket before burial, but beneath the wrapping, still well preserved, the body was clothed in a nightdress, torn at the shoulder. One glance convinced Paget that it would match the fragment of silk Grace Lovett had shown him the day before.
Alcott took one look, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and jabbed a finger at Paget. ‘Foster,’ he said grimly. He turned on his heel and set off down the hill. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Let me know when you bring him in.’
* * *
DR STARKIE arrived within the hour, red in the face and gasping from having to walk up the hill carrying his heavy bag. But after examining the body, he flatly refused to discuss time of death or its possible cause. ‘Tomorrow at the earliest,’ he told Paget. ‘But more likely it will be later. The body is decomposed; I have no idea how she died, and I’ll need time. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do.’
The investigating fire officer refused to allow anything in the barn to be disturbed unt
il later in the day, and that included the body of Emily Tyson. When Starkie learned this, he threw up his hands.
‘I’m not lugging this lot up the hill again today,’ he said flatly, indicating his bag. ‘If you want me back again, then you’ll have to have someone meet me to help me carry it up.’
‘You’d be a lot better off if you’d get rid of that gut,’ Charlie twitted him. ‘Good God, man, you’re supposed to be a doctor and look at you.’ He leaned over and patted Starkie’s ample stomach, an action he knew infuriated the portly little man. ‘You should be more like me. Look at that.’ He patted his own almost non-existent stomach. ‘Now that’s the way a stomach should look.’
‘You don’t have a stomach,’ Starkie snapped. ‘Six feet of bloody sewer pipe; in one end, out the other, that’s you.’ He slung his bag on his shoulder and, with a curt nod to Paget and Tregalles, he set off down the hill.
‘Have a nice day, Reg,’ Charlie called after him. ‘See you up here later.’ Starkie’s reply was unintelligible. Which was, perhaps, just as well.
* * *
‘FOSTER’S STATEMENT seems straightforward enough,’ said Ormside. ‘I was just going over to the cottage now to have him sign it. Would you like to take a look?’
Paget and Tregalles each took a copy and read it swiftly. ‘As you say,’ said Paget. ‘It seems straightforward enough, but we’ll take it over to him, Len. There are a couple of other things we have to talk to him about.’ He told Ormside of the shallow grave they’d found up on the hill. ‘Superintendent Alcott is convinced that it was Foster who buried her up there,’ he ended.
Len Ormside settled his long frame into his tilter chair and leaned back against the wall. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said at last. ‘Not Foster. What would the girl weigh? Seven, maybe eight stone? Something like that?’
‘Pretty close,’ Tregalles said. ‘Not all that heavy to carry.’