In the Family

by Christina James

  After a considerable delay, they saw her approaching. She picked her way through the mud and debris of the yard, cursing every time one of her black patent stilettos got caught in the uneven tarmac, her ample bosoms tightly encased in a slippery red garment and heaving with the effort. She plonked down two scarlet mugs adorned with the logo of a tyre company on a workbench near where they were standing, and inelegantly stumped off back towards her office without saying a word.

  “Thank you!” called out PC Gary Cooper (whose mother had had a sense of humour that he had not appreciated as a child). He elicited no response, and shrugged as he watched Gloria’s black-clad bottom retreat. He picked up both mugs and handed the other one to PC Chakrabati.

  “Put your hands round that,” he said. “It’s going to be cold, standing here.”

  A digger roared up to them and its driver brought it to a halt and jumped out. He was a stocky man with a jowly, grey-stubbled face. He wore a yellow hard hat which did nothing for his ashen complexion. He had a cigarette clamped between his lips and now removed it in order to talk to them.

  “I’m Jason Beech, the foreman here,” he announced. “I’m sorry to have to move you, but you can’t stand there. It won’t be safe once we’ve got started.”

  “We’ve got orders to watch the whole thing,” said Gary.

  “I can’t help that. I don’t want to get done for manslaughter. Why don’t you go and stand over there, by that tree? We can’t get the digger that far into the corner, so I know we won’t hit you there.”

  There was a solitary apple tree standing in the furthest corner of the yard, with some dustbins in front of it. Behind it was a high brick wall. The yard was bounded on one side by this wall, which was made of rather garish cheap yellow bricks, and the more attractive mellowed Victorian brick wall which separated it from Ronald Atkins’ garden.

  The two PCs looked at each other. Gary Cooper shrugged again.

  “All right,” he said. They moved to the place that he had indicated. It was smelly near the dustbins, but here they were more sheltered from the early spring breeze which came whipping round the buildings, straight off the North Sea. They slurped the hot tea and watched as the foreman jumped back into his digger and use it to rough up the tarmac. Another, younger, man then took over from him, and started tearing jagged pieces out of it. It was slow work. The digger worked in a cumbersome way, scrabbling at the ground like an old lady who could not get a purchase on something that she was trying to pick up, before ripping out what seemed like agonisingly small scraps. Another digger then met it head on with a scoop, and the first digger rested while the debris was clawed up, again in a clumsy, hit-and-miss kind of way.

  “We’re in for a long day,” said Giash Chakrabati, as he finished the tea. “Let’s hope we don’t have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” said Gary. “It all seems a bit far-fetched to me. Why do they think there might be a body hidden under all this tarmac and, if there is one, why do they think that these blokes might hide it?”

  “I don’t think it’s these blokes they’re worried about. It’s the old geezer in the house next door.”

  “Oh?” He looked across at the house, but from where he was standing he could see only the upstairs windows, which were in darkness. “Think the old geezer did it then, do they? But they’ll have to find a body first.”

  “Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  Gary fell silent. He wished that he could take a fag break, like the workmen were doing now, but knew that it would be too risky. Policemen complained about paperwork, about louts bad-mouthing them, and about not getting enough home life. None of these things troubled Gary over-much, but every so often a day like this came along, and all he was required to do was to watch or stand guard and get numbingly cold and mind-numbingly bored, with no prospect of being able to smoke a cigarette until he went off-duty. That was when he questioned his own sanity in choosing to become a policeman.

  The day lurched on. Each of the policemen took a toilet break. Henry Bevelton had offered them the use of the inside toilet, which was situated in a corner of the workshop, but it was clear from the way that she had tossed her head and then pounded away on her keyboard that Gloria considered this to be a personal affront. They had in any case decided to use the Portaloo in the yard, in common with the workmen. When lunchtime came, Henry offered to send out for something for them. Gloria was despatched to forage for food– evidently she did not mind this, presumably because she would get some of the spoils – and returned with hot Cornish pasties from The Prior’s Oven.

  By mid-afternoon, the whole of the yard had been dug up, and the debris piled in a skip, which was taken away. Now they were looking out at a waste of packed-down earth, with the two inspection pits exposed like giant sarcophagi in the middle of it. Henry Bevelton came out to speak to them.

  “What now, officers? How deep do you want us to dig into the earth?”

  “At least six foot,” said Gary. “But those’ll have to come out, too.” He indicated the inspection pits.

  Henry Bevelton’s patience was evidently wearing thin. “That’s out of the question,” he said flatly. “We use these pits every day. The smooth running of the business depends on them. If they’re removed, the work of my company will be disrupted for weeks. ”

  “Out of the question, is it, sir? I realise that this is all very upsetting for you and is having a big effect on the operation of your firm, but we do have a warrant. We can get one especially for the inspection pits, if you like, but it would save a lot of time if you were to co-operate straight away. We’ll make sure that you get some new ones in their place. These must have been here – what – about thirty years by now?”

  Henry considered for a minute. If he played his cards right, he realised that he would get a good bit of refurbishment – some of it long in need of doing – free of charge, as well as compensation for loss of earnings. Besides, he had had a few brushes with the police in the past and he didn’t want them to cut up rough – or take too great an interest in some of his more unusual day-to-day activities. He wasn’t exactly breaking the law, at least not in his own book, but Bevelton’s did sometimes carry out a few favours for their customers, such as turning the milometer back a bit on tractors that were for sale, or taking the best bits from two old tractors to make a new one; things that it was best to keep quiet about.

  “All right, it’s not out of the question, of course, if you say otherwise. But it is a major inconvenience and I want your assurance that the repair and replacement work will take place straight away, not months down the line. Otherwise I’ll be suing the police for more than loss of earnings.”

  “I understand that Detective Inspector Yates has already made those promises, sir. He isn’t a man not to keep his word.”

  Henry Bevelton walked across to where his men were gathered, watching, and spoke a few words to the foreman. He replied shortly, looking extremely annoyed. Henry outstretched both palms in a “What can I do about it?” gesture. Jason Beech stalked off, taking one of the younger men with him. They returned quickly, bearing several pick-axes, which they distributed. Then all five men began hacking at the concrete. Gary and Giash settled down once more, knowing that they were in for as tedious and cold an afternoon as the morning that they had just endured.

  Two hours later, with the concrete fairly well broken up, the men brought the diggers in again. They had cleared away most of the concrete and lifted it into a skip by the time that darkness came. By now the temperature had dropped, and because they had been standing around all day, both policemen were very cold.

  Jason Beech walked over to them, and spoke to them in a surprisingly friendly way.

  “Time to call it a day, officers. That OK with you? We could start digging up the soil, but we can’t see properly and we’re all pretty knackered now. I expect you are too?”

 
Giash nodded. Gary didn’t answer. He was busy looking across at the house next door.

  “You all right with that, Gary?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine. Thank you,” he said to the foreman belatedly.

  “Got something on your mind?”

  “No, not really. I was just looking at that house. There was a light on in one of the upstairs windows just now, and I could see the outline of a man standing there. I expect he’s the old geezer that Inspector Yates was talking about.”

  Giash followed his gaze.

  “No-one there now, is there?” he said.

  “Not as far as we can tell. He’s turned the light off, but he could still be standing there, I suppose.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “So that he can watch us without being seen, maybe.”

  “Nothing to watch now, is there? And no daylight to see by, either. Come on, let’s go and get a cup of tea somewhere. I’m perished.”

  It rained all night. When the two constables turned up at the yard the next day, the rain was easing off, but there was a small lake sitting on the packed-down soil.

  “It’s clay, see,” said Henry Bevelton, with a kind of morose I-told-you-so satisfaction. “Water doesn’t seep through it easily. I’ve sent one of the lads to hire a pump.”

  There was more endless waiting, fortified with several cups of tea (Gloria had either come round, or she had had a talking-to), until the pump arrived, was assembled, hooked up to a generator and started sucking out the water. By the time they were able to bring the diggers in again, it was almost lunchtime. Gloria appeared. She favoured them with a fuschia-lipsticked smile.

  “Same as yesterday, officers? Or would you rather have some soup and sandwiches?”

  “The pasty was fine by me,” said Gary. “And me,” added Giash. They both watched Gloria sashay away. Today she was wearing boots, laced at the back. Her ample calves bulged a little over the top of them.

  That afternoon, the men operating the diggers took off the soil foot by foot, as they had been instructed, with the policemen inspecting each layer, until six feet of soil had been removed. They had found nothing more interesting than some gnarled old tree roots.

  Henry Bevelton descended from his office, looking pleased with himself and a little sanctimonious, just as DC Juliet Armstrong arrived. His face fell a little when he saw her – he had first met her two days ago, when she had visited him with Detective Inspector Yates to explain what needed to be done and why; he found her more of a challenge than the uniformed policemen. However, he did not allow himself to be deflected from giving her the little speech that he had just prepared in his head for the two coppers.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Detective Constable. As you can see, my men have followed your instructions. As you can also see, we have found nothing. Is it all right if we put the soil back now? I’m anxious to get this yard to rights as soon as possible. There’s someone from a construction company coming tomorrow, to advise about making some new inspection pits. It will cost a pretty penny, but I daresay you’re ready for that.”

  Juliet regarded him levelly.

  “I think we’d like to wait a little before we do anything else, sir. I’m just going to have a word with my colleagues; then I’ll come back to you. I shan’t be long. Should I come and find you in your office?”

  “No, no, I’ll wait here,” said Henry. He was rubbing his hands together, though whether it was because he was anxious, full of glee in anticipation of the new yard that he was going to extract from the police force, or simply cold, it was difficult to say.

  Juliet joined Gary and Giash under the apple tree.

  “Have this lot been co-operating?”

  “There were a few grumbles at first,” said Giash, “but after that, they were fine.”

  “Is there anything funny about them?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Most of them don’t have a clue what this is about, though I suppose the old guy’s probably told them something, even though we asked him not to. He seems a bit jumpy, but it’s probably because he’s worried about the amount of time this is taking. Either that, or he’s up to some petty dodges that he doesn’t want us to find out about, is my guess. I don’t think he knows any more about whether there’s a body here or not than we do.”

  “You’re sure that there’s nothing in that heap of soil?”

  “Well, we could sieve it I suppose.” Giash had meant this as a joke, then instantly regretted saying it, as Juliet put her head on one side in reflection. “I think we’ve been pretty careful,” he added quickly. “They’ve only been lifting the soil to the depth of a foot at a time, as we asked them, and we’ve turned over every layer. We’ve found a fair bit of debris – bits of old tools, shards of pottery, something that looks like part of a bicycle chain – quite small stuff, in fact, so if there had been any bones in there I think we would have spotted them. There are loads of tree roots, too.”

  “Well, it was an orchard. How long has the building been there? It doesn’t look Victorian.”

  “No, it isn’t, but it’s pre-war. Henry Bevelton’s grandfather founded the business in the 1930s, and the office and workshop were built then. The showroom at the front was added afterwards.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been chatting to Henry, off and on. He’s not a bad bloke, really.”

  “The land on which the showroom was built belonged to them right from the start, then?”

  “I think so.”

  “I know that the orchard was bought from the Atkins family in the 1970s. Has every square foot of it been dug up now?”

  “Most of it. There’s just that little strip of path in front of the workshop. Henry said that there was a wooden fence there, dividing the properties, before he bought the land.”

  A gust of wind lashed the air around them suddenly. Juliet shivered, and looked up at the bare branches of the apple tree.

  “How long has that tree been there?”

  “Search me. Part of the old orchard, probably. In other words, for ages. One tree spared, or something. I could ask Henry.”

  “That tree’s not old enough to have been part of the original orchard,” said Gary. “Those trees would have been seventy or eighty years old at least, if they were still here. This tree’s quite old for an apple tree, but you can see that it’s still producing fruit” – he indicated some half-rotted apples lying on the ground. “My Dad used to grow apples. He used to reckon that the trees have outgrown their strength by the time they are thirty years old, or forty at most, and he said that they stop fruiting properly then. I’d say that this tree’s somewhere between twenty and thirty years old.”

  “You’re sure it could be as much as thirty years old?”

  “I think so. But if it’s important, we can ask Henry Bevelton.”

  “Good idea. Get him to come over here, will you?”

  They turned round so that they could see Henry Bevelton, who was still hovering in the doorway of his workshop, his arms folded across his chest. He was slapping his shoulders gently, presumably in an attempt to warm himself up. He looked alarmed when they saw him watching them. Juliet smiled and lifted her hand in a fresh greeting. Gary walked across to Henry and asked him to join them.

  “Well,” he said when he caught them up, unnaturally hale and bright as he stood to face Juliet, “What now? Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “Just some more information, if you please, Mr. Bevelton.” Juliet regarded him coolly. She was taking a dislike to Henry because she suspected him of dishonesty of some kind. She could usually sniff it out. Otherwise she could think of no explanation for his nervousness.

  “Fire away!”

  “Was this apple tree here when you bought the yard from Colin Atkins, or has it been planted since?”

  “Oh, it was here al
ready. You don’t have much use for fruit trees when you’re running a heavy plant business.” He said it with a chuckle. Juliet realised that although he was making a leaden attempt at humour, he was still extremely nervous.

  “Indeed. I believe that there was a whole orchard of apple trees here when you made the purchase?”

  “Yes, and pear trees. I think there may even have been a couple of cherry trees,” he said expansively.

  “All of which were cut down so that you could use the land as a tractor maintenance yard?”

  “Yes – you know that was the case. Nothing wrong in doing that, was there? I consulted the council about planning permission, for the pits and for the petrol tank that we installed on the other side of the showroom.”

  “Nothing wrong with it at all, Mr. Bevelton. I’m sure you went through all the appropriate procedures. What we’re curious to know is, why was this tree spared?”

  “Oh, it was a very young tree at the time – little more than a sapling. And Mr. Atkins asked us particularly to leave it. He said that it had been planted in memory of his mother.”

  “Mr. Colin Atkins, this was?”

  “No, it was actually Mr. Ronald Atkins: the present owner of the house next door.”

  “So the mother in question was Mrs. Doris Atkins, the lady who had met a violent death some time before.”

  “I guess so. I haven’t really thought about it before. There was a very old lady living in that house, too – I went to see them several times in the space of four or five years, to try to buy the land. It took me all my powers of persuasion, I can tell you: for a long time, they wouldn’t hear of it. I’d assumed that that old lady had died, and that was who he meant. But now I think about it, I suppose it could have been the one who was mur . . . died a violent death.”