Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

“Can’t we get back to the car?”

  Rita agreed at once. It was hard to see anything except the long rows of birch trees and their straggling tangle of new growth and soaked leaf. Sylvia, Harry, Tracy and Rita began to scramble back up to the road. It was the waiting police car they pushed back into with a sigh of pleasure at the contained warmth. Rita drove and turned the heating up. The windscreen wipers didn’t help much. “Dear old England,” Harry said with bright sarcasm, “always provides the weather we need.”

  The two helicopters had also returned to base. The one which had taken Morrison up as a passenger looked somewhat bedraggled with water streaming from the overhead blades.

  Morrison’s office was small and cluttered, with or without him. He and the others arrived at the same moment, with thunder surging around them and wind rattling the one small window.

  “We gave up.” Rita waved in explanation at the rattling window. “We wouldn’t have seen him if he’d leapt from the trees, and we wouldn’t have heard him if he’d done a Tarzan screech.”

  Tracy, sitting directly in front of Darcey on the other side of his desk, was attempting to dry her hair with her hands. She smiled through her wet fingers. “Your woods and hills out there – they look like the right place. But as for Dad’s cottage, I don’t know really. He said it was a long way from any roads, but there’s a path, and then a lane, and then another path but not going to the front door. You can drive quite close as long as it’s not a truck.”

  “A windy helicopter ride didn’t come up with a thing. But as soon as the weather clears, we’ll try again. And keep trying, I imagine. It’s a country-wide search and gets more urgent with every killing.”

  “No increase on the two in Nottingham?”

  “No. But he won’t stop at two. I can only assume he’s living up there at present, but if we can close in on his more permanent home, that could be almost as valuable.”

  Rita stood and wandered over to the wall where Sullivan’s photograph was pinned, large and scowling. “You look nothing like your father,” she said, turning to Tracy. “Did your sister look like him?”

  “I hardly remember her.” Tracy now sat with her hands clasped in her lap. She looked meek, an unlikely possibility. “Karyn was a lot older than me. Eleven years. I know she played with me when I was a little kid, but I was about six when she disappeared. Well, she died of course, but I didn’t know that at the time. Poor Karyn.”

  “Rumour,” said Morrison, fingertips tapping together, “says that your sister was killed either by your father or by your mother and father together. Have you any idea about the facts? Did your mother ever speak of it?”

  “Yes, she did.” Tracy still stared into her lap. “She told me later that Dad did it. That was why I had to be kept safe, locked in and everything.” Sighing, she looked up quite suddenly. “Then in one of his messages, Dad told me that Mum did it. I didn’t believe either of them. I reckon they did it together.”

  “Why?” Harry gulped, leaning forwards.

  “’Cos Dad’s a monster and so’s Mum. She did what he told her anyway. Besides, she’d want to see what the fun was all about.”

  Harry looked somewhat sick. “Did she have a funeral? Did you go?”

  “No funeral,” said Tracy. “I found out later Dad took her to some back street miles and miles away and dumped her in someone’s garden. God, can you imagine what the poor sods did when they woke up and found a body? Dad was never done for it, nor Mum. I don’t know how she died or anything, no one told me nothing. Then Dad just started fucking me. I suppose that was because Karyn wasn’t available anymore.”

  “You never asked?”

  “Yuck, no. I don’t want to know things like that. My sister who played with me and stuck a plaster on my knee when I fell over. No one else bothered. I don’t like sick things.” She shook her head, and the last raindrops flew. “Try being the kid of two sick people. You certainly don’t ever want to think about it. I should never have read that Paul persons’ book about Dad. But – well – it was my father. I couldn’t just ignore it. And it woke me up. I mean, it was Mum made me hate her. Dad – we,, until I found out about the killings, I was really quite fond of him. Don’t make faces at me – it wasn’t my fault. I knew the fucking was wrong – dads don’t fuck little girls let alone their own daughters. Well, actually, lots of them do and the kids never say anything about it their whole lives long. But after the first hurting times, he was kind and cuddly. Mum never cuddled me in her whole life.”

  “Many violent criminals are the children of abuse and cruel parents,” said Morrison quietly. “I understand your father was also abused as a child.”

  “Yeh. He killed his mother.”

  Morrison raised both eyebrows. “There was always a suspicion of that,” he said. “But there is neither proof nor evidence of the circumstances. Your father denied any such thing.”

  “Dad denied all sorts of things. He denied I was his kid. I’d like that to be true.”

  The storm had passed by the time Kate took Iris’s arm and helped her down the stairs. “Thanks, dear. These legs aren’t what they used to be.” Iris regarded the short, plump well stockinged legs barely appearing beneath her tartan skirt and the woolly red coat over the top. She believed in sturdy shoes with a small heel. She liked to add a little height, being barely five foot, but couldn’t walk in real high heels.

  The tea and cake shop was shut. Sundays and Mondays except in the height of the tourist season, was their escape from baking and serving and cleaning up endlessly. Having expanded to six tables and twenty-six chairs, a professional coffee machine and pies as well as cakes, it was a thriving business.

  “But we can’t run it alone,” complained Iris.

  “I did it without anyone,” said Kate. “Completely alone. Mind you, it was a smaller affair. But I managed. Now if we build it up even more, we can afford a waitress and a bigger oven.” She locked the door behind her with three different keys. “And maybe even a cleaner. How about an assistant cook for the easy stuff?”

  During the bitter winter, the opening hours had been erratic. Having depended on her husband’s desires and his twin brother’s activities, the shop eventually closed for over a month. “Now,” Iris murmured, “we can be the best little café in the Cotswolds.”

  “Naturally. Aren’t we that already?” Kate smiled as she stuffed the small envelope in her handbag, carefully checking the letter folded inside. “The bus should be along soon.”

  “It’s always late on a Sunday,” said Iris.

  “It’s late most days,” said Kate. “One day I’ll get rich, learn to drive and buy a lovely big car. I’ve always wanted a Citroen. How about red?”

  Iris shook her tight grey curls. “Red cars always drive too fast,” she said. “It’s a car for show-offs. How about pretty pale blue?”

  “He’s a good boy,” she said. “Such a thoughtful lad, and always has been. And yet he’s had bad luck over and over.”

  “I sympathise, Mrs Curzon. And I understand how difficult it must be for both of you. I’ll do what I can, but there’s very little I’m able to do I’m afraid. “

  “Dean’s strong,” mumbled his father. “The lad’ll pull through. Don’t you worry about him, Reverent Phabbing. He’ll be alright. We’ll see you on Wednesday for the funeral.”

  It was an old church, although the windows, having all been smashed during the forties, were now new. The old spire was complete with gargoyle’s, and the images of marching saints. The hushed beauty created its own impression. Mrs Curzon, trotting down the aisle, whispered, “The reverent will help, won’t he, George?”

  “Not sure.” George Curzon turned and faced his wife. “Dean’s coping well. Yes, it’s a tough time for him, and we’ll keep that in mind. Make allowances, of course. But Dean’s not into the church the way we are, Daisy dear. We’ve tried and tried over the years. We’ve done our best. But we can’t force him. He’ll find his own way back to the Lord in good time, you’
ll see.”

  “But at such a hard time, George, this is when he should be praying. It would help so much.”

  Shaking his head with determination, George took his wife’s hand. “Daisy, my dear, you mustn’t fuss. I’ve spoken to the boy’s teacher. She thinks he’s adapting very well. To be honest, he seems to be coping better than you, my love.”

  “Oh, George! Do you think so? I hope you’re right.”

  “Well, let’s get home.” He opened the passenger door for her. “You can snuggle down in front of the telly while I’ll put the kettle on. If Dean’s in, then perhaps we should talk. But I expect he’ll be out playing with his little friends.”

  “He’s seventeen, George, not seven,” said Daisy as she climbed into the car and scrabbled with the seat belt. “But you’re right. I expect he’s off at football practise.”

  The house was dark, so she had been correct. Dean was out. “Good. He needs to take his mind off things,” said his father as he filled the kettle and switched it on.

  “Well, the lad’s had a good Christian upbringing,” Daisy said, sipping her tea. “It shows how well we did, George, in spite of – well, you know. We did a good job, and Dean’s growing up to be a good boy.” She lowered her voice and peered around as if expecting spies. “Which is more than I can say for young Brian Gauci. He’s a trouble maker, and I’ve known that since the first time Dean brought him here. I do wish he’d been the one – well – you know – instead of poor Ian Price.”

  Her attention was diverted. George offered, “Do you want help with the roast, my Daisy-doll?”

  “Ooo, dinner,” Daisy remembered, leaping up from the armchair. “It’s all ready. Just needs the gas turned on. I’ll do it, dear, won’t take a minute.”

  “We can go for a nice walk in the fresh air afterwards,” her husband suggested, calling from the living room to the kitchen where his wife now pottered and clattered. “Healthy fresh air, and not too cold. We can walk down by the new estate they’re building over the other side of the village.”

  “Estates aren’t pretty, George, and it’s all dust and cranes and holes. The lane towards Nottingham is prettier. We can cross the little bridge and walk past the Webster’s farm. But dinner won’t be ready for about an hour.”

  He had turned the television on, stretching into the large armchair that Daisy had recently vacated. It was the sports news. “What was that dear? Something about the Websters and dinner. Are they coming here?”

  “No, George.” She trotted back into the living room. “Just watch the telly. Dinner won’t be ready for at least an hour.”

  “Is Dean back for dinner?”

  “I have no idea,” she answered him. “When do either of us have the faintest clue about what he’s doing? If he doesn’t appear, I shall put his plate in the microwave for later.”

  “He’s a good boy,” George muttered to himself, “but I don’t know why he doesn’t like the football. Doesn’t everybody love football?|”

  “Just a headache,” said Sylvia. “It’ll fade. I’ve taken pills.”

  “Are you sure they’re the right pills?” Harry looked up from the newspaper.

  “Harry dear, I haven’t turned into another Amy quite yet.”

  “I was just thinking about all the mix-ups and problems and how many people die by mistake. Taking the wrong pills. Or side-effects of the right pills.”

  “Or suicide. Or murder.”

  “Not quite the same thing, my love. I suppose I’m not making any sense. It’s just being surrounded by murder.”

  “Not quite surrounded, thank goodness, my love. And our choice.”

  “So we’re mad.” Harry stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I’m so stiff. My own fault. Tension. It’s thinking about what makes these people want to kill. Yes, alright – power. But there’s sex in there too. Sex is so exciting and thrilling, for goodness sake. And one of the biggest parts of enjoying sex, is to know you can bring the same feeling to the other person.”

  “That’s benign power,” Sylvia decided. “I mean, the first time I really knew I was in love with you was when you walked into the room on a freezing cold day, and I felt a flood of golden warmth. The lights had come on.”

  Harry’s face immediately lit with the same golden warmth. “That’s a wonderful thought. I felt the same. I used to scurry over here, and all of a sudden the miserable greyness turned into sparkling luminescence.”

  Sylvia leaned over and kissed his cheek. “So where does murder come into the game?”

  “I just can’t understand it. It’s the opposite of sense. Emotion all wrinkled up and turned on its head. Finding pleasure in pain.” Harry yawned and pulled Sylvia onto his lap. “All this talk about sex is most distracting.”

  “Mind the headache and the aching bones and the arthritic joints.” But she leaned down, kissing his forehead. “Let’s stay alive for as long as possible.”

  The Mental Hospital was long, low in front, and surrounded by soft grassy lawns. A pretty place, trying hard to be tranquil. Succeeding except for the long, tortuous scream coming from the top floor., five stories up.

  Kate shivered. Iris seemed unaffected. They approached the entrance where a series of desks were entirely unmanned. Iris rang the bell which sat large on the central desk. A small man looked with suspicion around a half-open door, then smiled. “Ah, yes, it’s Kate isn’t it? A little early for your appointment, but that’s all to the good.” He shook hands with Kate and Iris. “I’m Satya, and I’m Milton’s principal carer. But he’s sedated at present, I’m afraid, due to a bad series of nightmares. He’ll wake soon. Would you like to come upstairs?”

  “I’d like to talk to you first,” Kate said, following him to the grand staircase.

  “Oh, indeed yes,” said the nurse. “We can sit and chat in my office upstairs and I’ll know as soon as Milton wakes.”

  The office wasn’t exactly comfortable. “I had a letter from Milton as I told you on the phone,” Kate said, sitting bolt upright. “I mean, I’m impressed since he couldn’t even write his name a few months ago. But what he says is rather upsetting.”

  “I’m afraid he has a huge number of misconceptions,” added the nurse. “Living in a world of his own, you see. Poor Mr Howard has endless nightmares day and night. I know the full story, so it’s a little hard to feel sorry for him, but sometimes I certainly do. He does beg for sympathy of course.”

  It’s Eve Daish he’s written about.” Kate frowned. “She pulled the little envelope from her handbag and passed it over to the nurse. Satya pulled out the folded paper and stared at it, glasses on.

  “Lady come. Where my Evie. Must have. Dying her. Gotta runs long way. Help. Kisses from Master.” Satya looked up. “He’s certainly learning how to write. Very good.”

  “But the letter’s contents?” Kate objected.

  “Miss Daish must not be approached,” the male nurse said quite unnecessarily. “But we must see if we can cheer up our sad little Milton.”

  “And the remark about running away?”

  “Ah,” Satya assured her, “that certainly won’t happen, Mrs Howard. We have excellent security here.” He stood with an intake of breath. “Now, I’ll just pop in and see if your brother-in-law is awake yet.” His disappearance from the room was entirely silent, but his entrance next door was not silent at all. “Naughty boy,” echoed the voice from next door.

  Iris sat where she was, but Kate hurried out into the corridor. The door to the larger room was open and Milton could be seen struggling with the nurse.

  “Milton,” Kate called, voice stern. “I’ve come to visit you. What are you doing?”

  With unexpected enthusiasm, Milton rushed to Kate and flung both arms around her. His face buried itself into her ribs. “Katekins,” he said, half whimper. “You gonna takes me home?”

  “But this is home,” Kate said, extricating herself.

  Milton shook his head wildly. “Not true. Tis big and bright and it ain’t so
bad I s’pose. But t’isn’t home. Where’s Number One and Number Two? I needs me brovvers.”

  Wondering how to explain what had clearly not yet been explained, Kate spoke slowly. “Mark is – not well. Maurice is working in another country. He’s – very busy.”

  Aghast, Milton stood a little unbalanced, wobbling on his misshapen legs, a horrified expression further spoiling the shape of his face. “Me brovvers can’t come? Don’ wanna see Milton?”

  Kate hovered. Satya bustled around pointlessly retrieving pillows and plastic cups which had been thrown around the room. Milton toppled backwards onto his bed and began to cry. Marching between Kate and Satya, Iris came directly to the bed, sat beside Milton and put her arm around him. “Now, now,” she said. “Your brothers love you dearly. But they cannot come to see you while you wait for those exciting operations. And when you go into hospital, you’ll have lovely food and lovely nurses. Then, even more exciting, when you come out of hospital, you’ll look wonderful. You always thought you were ugly, didn’t you? Well, when you come out of hospital, you’ll be tall and handsome, just like Mark and Maurice.”

  Milton cuddled tightly to Iris’s woolly arms. “Is you my mummy?” he asked. Everyone stared.

  Milton could be sweet, he could be astonishingly simple, but he could also be manipulative. “I’m a surrogate mummy,” Iris said. “That means like a copy-mummy. And I shall come and visit you in hospital.”

  “And brings my Lady Evie?”

  “Definitely not,” said Iris. “Evie needs hospital too, Milton. You hurt her lots and lots. She needs to be looked after, and she’s cross with you. You have to forget Eve.”

  He looked puzzled. “I ain’t got no arrows,” he said with plaintive confusion. How does I kill off wot’s in me head? Them be called memories and they’s stuck in there.”

  Iris had taken over the conversation. Kate and Satya stood watching. Iris remained on the bed and held onto Milton. “Try hard to stop thinking about her. You can have a mummy and a sister instead of a lady. And you have a nice kind nurse to look after you. Do you go for nice walks in the sun?”