She grabbed another handful of tissues, and Alex made a silent note to replenish her supplies.
‘Do you have any photos of Steven?’ she asked next, not sure exactly what this woman wanted of her, and hoping she didn’t want anything more than to talk. Sometimes all people wanted was another pair of ears to listen to problems when their nearest and dearest wouldn’t, or couldn’t.
‘Oh yes, dozens,’ Jane said predictably. ‘The house is full of them, and that’s another thing. I refuse to put them away, and Bob can’t bear to look at them. Life hasn’t been easy for us, Miss Best. We have problems.’
That was probably the understatement of the year, thought Alex. But Jane was rummaging in her handbag now, and produced a large envelope.
‘I brought some with me. I knew you’d want to see them.’
‘I haven’t said I can help,’ Alex said quickly. ‘In fact, I’m not sure what it is you think I can do.’
‘Find him, of course. And find out whoever was responsible for planting that horrid hand in the woods and putting about the wicked story that he’d died.’
She was completely gaga, Alex decided. Deranged. You couldn’t fabricate forensic evidence, and DNA was so accurate these days it was virtually impossible to make a mistake. Even the flimsiest evidence could prove conclusive: a fragment of clothing, a pubic hair, the length of time maggots had been devouring a body, fingernail shape, dental impressions, old scars ... the list was endless, and impregnable. She had only witnessed an autopsy a very few times, and didn’t particularly want to do so again, thank you very much, but she couldn’t help but be awesomely impressed by what she had learned.
She studied the face of the boy in the photographs. He was a handsome lad, dark-haired and studious, with strong, open features. And apparently never in any bother at home, Nick had told her. Not the kind to go incognito for the rest of his life after missing out on an end-of-term camping trip, she would have thought.
And yet there was this other side to him — the side that was addicted to John Lennon songs and the Indian guru nonsense. A schizophrenic, perhaps. One of those people with multiple personalities.
If so, it was getting too deep for her. It was something only a professional could deal with.
‘Did Steven have any medical problems?’ she said carefully.
‘What sort of medical problems?’
‘I don’t mean anything serious. For instance, I know that schools still have regular visits from what was called the nit nurse, scrutinizing everybody’s heads,’ Alex said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Sounds horrible, I always think. But nowadays they also have attendant psychologists to sort out any small social problems among their pupils —’
‘Steven wasn’t mad. He may have been a deep thinker, but he wasn’t mad.’
‘And was he popular? Did he have plenty of friends?’
‘Good Lord, yes. He was always one of a group, in and out of school. There was nothing peculiar about our Steven.’
Alex noted that she was now referring to him in the past tense. It was probably a slip of the tongue, since she seemed utterly convinced he was still alive. While Alex was just as convinced that he was not.
But she could understand his mother a little more now. She couldn’t warm to her, but it must be the worst thing in the world to have the mystery of her son’s disappearance hanging over the family for ten years; to be incomplete; unable to say goodbye properly, though presumably her husband had done so long ago, which must make the tension between them even more unbearable at times. All those heartbreaking photos around the house that she couldn’t bear to put away, when he couldn’t bear to look at them ...
There was something else she should query, but before she could do so, Jane Leng had spoken again.
‘I understand you’re moving to Bristol,’ she said, throwing her off balance with the change of direction.
‘Well yes, I am, in a couple of weeks’ time, as a matter of fact.’ And hopefully, that would be the end of this ...
‘You’ll be able to look into it all for us then.’
‘Mrs Leng, it was all a long time ago, and I can’t believe you really did see your son,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you sure you want to pursue this? Isn’t it just prolonging the agony for you and your husband? And it will be difficult for me to communicate with you —’
‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. We’re moving back home to Chilworthy when Bob retires in February. South of Bristol, near Chew Valley in case you don’t know it. That’s what makes it perfect. As soon as I heard that nice Mr Frobisher telling somebody about you moving, I knew it was fate. I believe in fate, don’t you?’
‘I do indeed,’ Alex said mechanically. The hell of it was, fate didn’t always do what you wanted it to. And damn Nick for being so indiscreet. But how was he to know?
‘So will you take on our case, Miss Best?’ Mrs Leng said more grandly, clearly liking the sound of the words. She was a homely woman with homespun ways, and Alex suspected this was probably the most daring thing she had ever undertaken on her own.
‘And if you’re worried about payment, it’s no problem. Bob’s getting a very nice golden handshake when he retires, and we’re splitting it down the middle. The old fool will squander all his on drink,’ she added spitefully, ‘but I’m spending my half on finding Steven. I don’t care how much it takes, or how long. I just want him home.’
God, it was tragic how two people, who had presumably once been close, could tear one another apart. It was pretty obvious there was no love left between them, and in Alex’s mind there were worse things than physical abuse. There was the slow, painful disintegration of a marriage.
She hardly knew what else to say, but she reminded herself that she was a professional with a job to do, and if this woman wanted her to do some investigating, she would do it. It would take her a while to get established in Bristol, so this would tide her over nicely. And if that was a hell of a cynical way of looking at it, sometimes it was the only way to get through.
‘Then we have a deal, Mrs Leng,’ she said, to let her know the interview was over. ‘I’ll give you my new business address, and you can contact me there.’
‘Thank you,’ she gushed, still using up more tissues than was necessary, in Alex’s opinion.
‘In the meantime, let’s all try to enjoy Christmas,’ Alex said, not sure if this was going to cheer her up or not, but making sure the woman knew she had a life outside business hours. ‘I’ll start things moving as soon as I get to Bristol, and hopefully I’ll have something to report the next time I see you. I must stress, though, that you mustn’t expect miracles.’
‘Oh, I already think of you as my miracle, Miss Best!’
She gave Alex a brilliant smile, and just for a moment Alex saw the echo of the once-pretty woman she had been, before Bob Leng and his drinking and the loss of her son Steven had worn her away as surely as the encroaching sea wears away rocks.
*
After she had left, Alex forced herself to remember again that she was a professional in a bloody hard world, and there was now a hefty cheque in her possession. Once she had banked it, the first thing she was going to do was call Nick and treat him to a flash night out on the town. There wouldn’t be many more occasions for doing so, and the encounter with Jane Leng had left her uneasy, and longing to do something normal.
Nights like these, the song said, and if he got the wrong idea about her invitation, then so be it, she thought. A healthy dose of R and R, which was the army’s term for Rest and Relaxation — and Nick’s way of referring to a night of rampant sex — was just what was needed to forget all about the neurotic Lengs and their problems.
*
‘Hell, Alex, I can’t make it tonight,’ he said, in answer to her call. ‘Why didn’t you call me before, babe?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, more sick with disappointment and resentment than she had a right to be, considering she had no intention of making their relations
hip a permanent one. ‘I was tired of packing, that’s all, and needed some good conversation.’
‘If that’s all you needed, I’m not sorry I’m busy,’ he teased. ‘And no, I don’t mean that. You’re always good to talk to — as well. How about Friday night instead?’
‘Friday’s the night before Christmas Eve. Everything will be booked up, and I really wanted to treat you to a meal, Nick, to thank you for everything ...’ Her voice trailed away, knowing she sounded pathetic. At a loose end so close to Christmas? But then so, apparently, was he.
‘Tell me where you want to go, and I’ll get us a table,’ he said arrogantly. ‘The power of the law, remember?’
For once, she didn’t bite. So what if he had influence? She named the best West End restaurant she could think of, and ignored his small whistle.
‘Have you come into money or something?’
‘Something like that. I’ll see you Friday then. Book a table for eight o’clock and pick me up around seven, OK?’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he said smartly, before ending the call.
She was still smiling when she hung up.
Christmas Day wasn’t going to be a lonely affair, either. She had friends. She had plans. Before leaving London for the south-west, she was finally going north, back to her roots to spend Christmas with an aunt who’d been asking her for years if she was too proud now to visit her old relatives. And Alex’s new second-hand Suzuki (one careful lady owner, non-smoker, vgc) was going to be put through its paces.
She hadn’t been back to Skeldale for years. It would be odd to see them all again. Her cousins would be grown-up now, strangers in many ways, and her aunt still refused to address her occasional letters to anyone but Miss Audrey Barnes, c/o Miss A. Best. It was quaint and old-fashioned, but it reminded Alex of who she was. Sometimes it was important to remember that.
But Friday night was for Nick, and she dressed up to the nines in her trademark black, and got the required reaction.
‘Why the hell am I letting you out of my life?’ he moaned dramatically the minute he saw her.
‘You’re not. You just keep in touch, you hear?’ she said, swallowing hard, because she was feeling far too emotional, damn it. And with Christmas parties going on everywhere, and people wallowing in nostalgia, it was hard not to wonder if she was doing the right thing after all. She had everything she needed right here. But she was going, and that was that.
The restaurant meal was hugely overpriced, but she didn’t care. She was treating a good friend — her best friend — and by the time the taxi took them back to her flat they were both mellow with champagne.
‘You can’t stay, Nick, much as I’d like you to,’ she giggled, fumbling for her key. ‘I have to be off early in the morning to visit the folks back home.’
‘Lucky old hayseeds,’ he commented.
‘No, they’re not. They’re just family, even though they think of me as the black sheep because I never write, I never phone, I never visit —’
‘Good God, bring out the violins,’ he grinned, as they finally fell inside the door of her flat. ‘Well, if you won’t let me stay, you’d better fill me up with black coffee or I’ll never find my way home.’
‘You’re not driving!’
‘I drove here, so I suppose I’ll have to drive home.’
Alex gave a sigh. He couldn’t risk it and they both knew it. He’d be staying over. They both knew that too.
‘I want to ask you something, if you can be sensible for a minute,’ she said, when she got out of the clinch that was seriously holding up the coffee-making.
‘Ask away, Ma’am,’ he said.
It’s about the Leng boy.’
The atmosphere between them dropped a couple of degrees, and his hands slid away from the interesting places they had been moving towards.
‘Christ, Alex, leave it alone. Don’t get involved.’
‘I am involved. I’ve agreed to look into it. Did you know Jane Leng is convinced she’s seen her son?’
‘So what’s new?’ he said with a resigned air. ‘The bloody woman’s obsessed. She needs psychiatric help, and so does Bob, if you ask me.’
‘Because he’s having nightmares?’
‘Because he’s going to kill himself, and her too, if she doesn’t let it go. He’s violent when he’s drinking, and they’d have chucked him out of the fire brigade long ago but for a few sympathy votes.’
‘About Steven,’ Alex said quickly, before she lost the thread. The violent angle was something new, though, and she must remember it. ‘He had plenty of friends, according to his mother. Do you think the group of schoolfriends he was meant to be camping with were involved in a cover-up?’
‘Doubt it. They were questioned minutely. But if you must look for scapegoats, why not the druggies? Why not the other group he was messing with? They were all clean —’
‘Whoa a minute! Hold on, Nick. What other group?’
She remembered instantly now what she had intended to ask Jane before the woman went off at a tangent. Steven was always one of a group, in and out of school ...
‘Those bloody Followers.’
‘Followers? What — stalkers, you mean?’
Nick snorted. ‘No. Jesus groups and all that rubbish. You know the sort. Like the Moonies. The Sunnies. Religious cults. Crackpots. These just called themselves Followers. Couldn’t think of anything more inventive, I reckon.’
‘And Steven was involved with them?’
‘I didn’t say that. He was attracted to them. Spent time with them, apparently, which caused plenty of aggro at home with his father. If you’ve met him, you’ll know what I mean. Once seen, never forgotten.’
‘I didn’t meet him at the party.’
‘Big geezer. Disagreeable face. Typical mugshot features. Could double for a TV gladiator or a wrestler, whichever turns you on,’ he added for good measure.
‘Neither, as a matter of fact.’ But the more she heard about Bob Leng, the more she was losing sympathy with his nightmares. It seemed more likely they were a case of the DTs.
‘Look, can we forget these morons and make the most of tonight?’ Nick said, putting his arms around her. ‘I can think of far better things to do. And you’re not really going to turn me out on a cold winter’s night, are you, babe?’
She wasn’t, and she didn’t. But first thing next day she turfed him out early, knowing she had to forget all about problem clients for the next few days, because she had to drive to Yorkshire and revert to being Audrey Barnes again.
Chapter 3
Skeldale never changed. It was as comfortable as an old coat, and as predictable as breathing. When she reached the top of the hill leading down to the valley, Alex got out of her car to stretch her legs and felt a prickle of unexpected tears blur her eyes. It didn’t take much to make her feel like Audrey Barnes again after all. Just this.
The whole valley was like a Christmas card scene, coated with a sprinkling of snow now, and glittering like sugar frosting in the wintry thread of sunlight, Alex thought theatrically.
‘’Tis two overcoats colder up here,’ her father used to say prosaically, with the satisfying implication that the south was soft, and southern folk weren’t hardy enough to stand it anyway.
The isolated farmhouses in the valley below looked snug and cosy with smoke rising from their chimneys. But icicles hung from the more shaded bushes, and the cold had already penetrated Alex’s fashion boots.
‘Daft, I call it, wearing stuff like that,’ she could almost hear her Aunt Harriet say, with a disapproving look at her footwear. She made a bet with herself as to how soon she would say it. And who would be the first to ask when she was coming back home: Aunt Harriet or Uncle Bill.
She got back in the car quickly, reminding herself that she had chosen to leave, and she didn’t belong here any more. Only in her heart. But you had to move on, and there wouldn’t be much call for a PI among these farming folk — especially those who had known you since you w
ere knee-high to a sparrow.
She blotted out the stupid memories, and drove on to her uncle’s farm, stamping away the snow before she went inside, to be enveloped at once in her aunt’s embrace. Then it was the turn of Uncle Bill, who held her away from him for a few scrutinizing minutes before he nodded sagely.
‘You need a bit o’ fattening up, our Audrey. You’re nowt but skin and bones. Don’t they feed you in London?’
‘Leave the lass alone, Bill,’ her aunt said. ‘And let her get rid of them fancy boots. Daft, I call it, wearing stuff like that in these parts!’
Alex burst out laughing. God, they were straight out of Wuthering Heights, and she loved them.
*
But it wasn’t all beer and skittles and déjà vu ... Christmas Day was scratchy with the cousins. Amy was still as pasty as a suet dumpling and had got progressively fatter as she reached forty. Her farmer husband was her double, and Alex thought that if ever they wanted to cast an adult production of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, here they were.
They argued like hell all the way through Christmas dinner (never called lunch in these here parts), and her cousin Jed, whom she always thought was the spit of cousin Jethro in The Beverley Hillbillies, eyed her with suspicion now and then, occasionally spouting a remark which he’d clearly practised a dozen times in his head.
Shamefully, Alex knew she was stereotyping them. But how could you help it, when they were already caricatures of all the worst country thickos ever portrayed on screen?
‘You’re real citified now, our Audrey. What’s to do with that job of yours then?’ Jed said finally.
‘She’s a glorified tally-man,’ Amy’s husband Vic put in spitefully. ‘That’s about it, ain’t it, lass? You go round collecting debts from them that can’t pay up.’
‘That comes into it sometimes,’ Alex agreed, prepared to keep calm and hoping her eyes weren’t spitting fire at this lout. ‘I also try to solve crimes.’
He snorted. ‘Hell’s teeth, that’s what the police are for, ain’t it? Who’d want a flashy young lass like you poking into their affairs?’
Deadly Suspicions (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 3) Page 3