Angela's Dead

by Lou Peters

  To say the cottage was in a state of disrepair, or in estate agent speak had room for potential, would’ve been an understatement. The building was square and rendered a murky grey colour. Worryingly, suspect patches of a differing shade leeched to the outside walls’ surface, in more than one or two places. It was obvious the damp proof course was in need of further investigation. An ancient oak tree stood not too far away from the cottage, a detritus of soggy brown leaves and acorns beneath. The trees lower, gnarled branches reached out towards the cottage as if to claim the property for its own. For entirely different reasons, Richard and Rachel stood transfixed gazing at the front of the building. A solitary downstairs window peeped out barely seen behind a large shrub. From the layout of the cottage on the photocopy, it had been apparent there should be a corresponding similar sized window on the downstairs elevation. However, that had been totally obliterated by greenery. A dilapidated front door was positioned to the right. Rachel was aghast, the reality more intimidating than any photograph. In her opinion, there was only one redeeming feature of River Cottage, and that was the double gabled, grey slate roof. A bedroom window set beneath each crumbling, moss covered gable end.

  ‘Wow. It’s larger than I imagined.’ He stood beside Rachel on the cracked concrete path. Reaching out he took her hand, warm within his own as he continued to stare at the property in admiration. ‘This is better than I thought,’ he exclaimed, seemingly enraptured. ‘What do you think? It’s terrific, isn’t it?’

  Rachel cast a quick glance in his direction, but Richard hadn’t been wearing rose tinted glasses. He squeezed her hand and she reciprocated the gesture, thankful she hadn’t had to respond in words.

  ‘Come on, let’s open her up.’ He gave Rachel’s back a gentle push to chivvy her along the overgrown garden pathway edged with almost waist high nettles and brambles.

  ‘How long did the agent say the place had remained empty?’ She was thinking the last fifty years, at least. Gaining no response, Richard had either not heard her question, or decided to ignore it. Entering through the rotting, wooden front door once Richard had inserted the key and given a hefty push to gain admittance, Rachel was dismayed to be met with dark damp walls, painted in a hideous two tone shade of green. The surface even felt wet to the touch. ‘Is this gloss paint? ... Yuk.’

  ‘Looks like, but its only cosmetics Rache. You need to see beyond the decoration.’

  Decoration! Was he joking?

  ‘The dark colours I admit do look a bit drab. With the walls lightened and the shrubs cut back away from the windows to allow more natural light in. It’ll feel a totally different place. Don’t forget sweetheart, we’re looking at it at the worst time of the year. You just wait ‘till the sun’s shining, it’ll be fabulous, you’ll see.’

  Rachel wished she shared his optimism. From the entrance hall the uncarpeted, wooden stairs rose up on the right accessing the promised three bedrooms. However, Richard was in a hurry to check out the downstairs areas first. Opening a door off the hallway to the left the couple entered what was presumed to be the sitting room. Again dark and dank, the same horrible green shades adorned the walls. The dual aspect windows, which should have afforded views to the front garden and lane, were obscured by shrubbery, giving the room a depressing and dismal feel. Richard tried the light switch. An old fashioned fitting with the swell of an immature breast, but of course the electricity had been disconnected.

  ‘I’ll be happier when the place has been rewired. Get Uncle Ted, dad’s brother, out here for a few days. He’ll soon have the electrics in order.’

  ‘Don’t these things have to conform to some special standard, Richard?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m certainly not paying for someone to come and do the job, let’s put it that way. Not when Uncle Ted’s a fully qualified electrician. I’d trust him to carry out the work, rather than some cowboy with only half of his experience.’ He smiled, taking any perceived barb out of his words. Still, she felt like she’d been put in her place. The bare floorboards felt spongy beneath them, but Richard appeared unconcerned. ‘Probably a couple of under floor joists need replacing.’ His tone lightened, ‘come and look at the fireplace Rachel.’ The enthusiasm contained in his voice was contagious and she knelt down beside him, her mood slightly lifted. ‘It’s obviously the original. You’d pay a fortune to buy something similar these days,’ Richard continued.

  She had to admit, given a little attention, the stone and cast iron surround once carefully cleaned, removing the soot and grime which it was presently covered in, then perhaps the fireplace could eventually become a nice feature of the cottage. A further room was revealed on the opposite side of the corridor, again containing an open fireplace. It was of smaller proportions. Bereft of furniture the room’s past use remained unclear. She supposed it could eventually be utilized as a dining room. She tried to envisage the restoration of the space but her imagination failed to stretch that far. Rachel was having difficulty getting past the present abysmal state of the place.

  ‘Jesus Richard, but who would paint the whole of the downstairs in the same dreadful shades?’ She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  ‘This must be the bathroom,’ Richard called, having stepped back into the corridor he’d opened the next door along, ‘and toilet,’ he added. ‘You’re not going to like it Rache, it’s the same lovely colour scheme.’

  ‘You are joking?’ But why would he be? She pushed past him to check he was having her on, expecting to see a tiled surface in this room at least. The lead weight inside again plummeting to her boots when she realised he wasn’t. ‘Why is the bathroom downstairs?’ Rachel remarked, confused at the unfamiliar layout.

  ‘You’ll find it’s quite common in places of this period. You’re lucky there’s a bathroom installed at all. It could have been a tin bath in front of the fire job, with the karzy located in a wooden hut outside at the bottom of the garden.’ Richard winked, causing Rachel’s heart to flutter.

  She loved him, but did she love him enough to move here, to the back of beyond. A sudden image of her soaping Richard’s broad back as he sat naked in the middle of the kitchen; knees drawn up in an inadequate sized metal container, filled her head, answering her question and she smiled to herself.

  Richard fiddled with one of the chrome taps, green powder coming off onto his fingers. ‘Water must be off at the mains.’

  ‘You hope, perhaps there isn’t any laid on.’

  Smiling, he bent his head to give Rachel a quick peck on the cheek, seemingly immune to her negativity. Squeezing past her in the narrow space, he exited the bathroom in search of the kitchen at the end of the passageway.

  ‘Richard, did somebody die in this house?’ Their inspection had taken the couple upstairs and they now stood in one of the larger back bedrooms. Rachel was unable to shake the feeling of – she wasn’t sure how best to describe the sensation, doom and gloom undoubtedly, but there was something else. The room had a heavy, depressing aura which had nothing to do with, the by now, all too familiar colour scheme. It was as though something lingered. Some old and possibly malevolent presence remained. But Richard wasn’t really listening to her, his attention was focused elsewhere.

  ‘You can see the river out of this window, come and have a look Rache.’

  The River Rase undulated like a snake in a hurry and was accessed from the garden through another arched, wrought iron gate, similar to the one at the front of the cottage. The gate was almost hidden in an opening in the wall, behind which a high, dark green holly hedge grew out of control. Once Richard had won his tussle with the wretched thing it was obvious there was a private, cobbled patio area on the other side. A long row of tall trees followed the water’s edge. The mostly bare branches softly soughed in the almost non-existent wind, gently rustling the remaining few leaves as they reached their bleached limbs skywards. The already fallen foliage blown in deep drifts of ochre and bronze at the base of the garden wall, crunched, yet felt soft and soggy as Richa
rd and Rachel waded through. Richard again took hold of her hand. He squeezed it tight as he grinned at her, a look of pure pleasure on his face. It was colder by the river and Rachel shivered, not only from the cold, but also in the knowledge she would now not be able to challenge Richard on his purchase of River Cottage. Seeing clearly how much the place already meant to him.

  Below, the fast flowing water tumbled over the unseen, rocky river bed. Churning, creating white peaks amidst the brown swirls of miniature whirlpools thundering beneath their gaze. Partially submerged tall reeds and rushes grew along the far bank. Beyond that, the lower lying mist shrouded fields would act as a flood plain, should the river threaten to overflow. The cottage being in an advantageous, elevated position should never be compromised. For a moment Rachel was caught up in the place’s magic. She could appreciate where she stood would be an idyllic spot in the summer, to lounge and relax. She pictured the two of them drinking chilled wine from crystal glasses, under the same swaying boughs. The trees at that time would be fully clothed in greenery, offering a shady canopy. Birds’ song would fill the air, while lazy picnics were enjoyed. Extending into the evening when candles would be lit...

  ‘Come on, let’s get back to the cottage and lock up. I’ll take you for that promised lunch.’ Richard’s pronouncement instantly dispelled the daydream. He dropped the arm that had encircled her shoulders, holding her close as they’d gazed into the turbid waters. They turned to retrace their steps.

  ‘That’s if they’re still serving, it’s nearly three o’clock,’ Rachel muttered.

  Once inside of the cottage Rachel’s spontaneous bout of enthusiasm evaporated. What was it about the property that unsettled her so much? She couldn’t answer the question. Apart from the obviously forlorn, unloved condition, something didn’t feel right. Was it a premonition of things to come, perhaps? Even looking back, knowing how things would turn out. Rachel wouldn’t be able to specify just what it was that October afternoon which had seemed so wrong.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thursday Morning 10 December 2009

  The car pulled up too close against the kerb. The left front tyre squealed in protest as the rubber grazed the edging stones. ‘Bollocks,’ Detective Inspector Mark Walters let out the expletive with feeling. He quickly readjusted the steering wheel, a compensation for his initial error of judgment. Recognising the registration plate, he parked the Toyota behind the solitary vehicle already stationed in the limited, off road parking bay. Subsequently blocking it in, but thoughtfully leaving an extra empty space for residents use. Walters stepped onto the pavement outside of the row of terraced houses, ranging uninspired either side of the narrow, dead end street and depressed the key fob in his hand. The lights of the car momentarily flashed, accompanied by the familiar bleep as the central locking system kicked in.

  The properties, uniform grey pebbledash, with equally grey slate roofs were set in blocks of four. The centre two houses were adjoined by an alleyway. Front doors painted in various muted shades the only concession to colour. A large allotment was laid out at the end of the road, barring the route from further progress. Chained and padlocked for the winter, it remained forgotten and forlorn behind the green mesh fencing like a plaything fallen out of favour. Walters’ heels echoed against the pavement reminding him of a tap dancers, disturbing the silence of the crisp winter air with each click. An intense, light hearted feeling breezed over him from out of nowhere. Perhaps it was an effect of the sun shining in the cold, clear sky, taking him by surprise, briefly eclipsing his doubts. The thought crossed his mind of giving an impromptu performance of “Singing in the Rain,” using the nearby lamp post as a prop. Although, he acknowledged, it wasn’t raining and under the circumstances would have been highly inappropriate. ‘You’re cracking up my old son,’ he told himself instantly dissipating the elation. Brown and gold, crinkled leaves lay trapped in mounds, congesting the gutters. Blown there by now absent winds they would remain prisoners, frost coated like a breakfast cereal until thawed. Or released by a mighty gust to dance as if on invisible strings, to swirl and spiral in the wind. Cavorting in a myriad display, adding colour to the dismal streets.

  The DI didn’t knock on the door of number twenty two Brook Crescent, he didn’t have to. He strode straight into the house unannounced, but expected. Hesitating briefly in the excuse for a hallway he donned the necessary garb that’d been left for him, before entering the room adjacent. The air was heavy with an aroma he didn’t want to identify. Or was that just his imagination? He gave a cursory nod to the only other living occupant in the room. The sergeant responded with a subdued, ‘morning sir.’ Walters wasn’t sure he wanted to do what was expected of him. The light heartedness he’d felt in the street seconds earlier, had now evaporated like water in a boiling pan. Replaced by a feeling of tightness in his chest, that was gradually working its way up to his throat. Walters walked about the room for a few moments, psyching himself up. It was a feeble attempt at delaying the inevitable for as long as possible, before he would have to confront his fears. In an absent minded fashion, he picked up a photograph brown with age in its elaborate frame, the palms of his hands suddenly sweaty. Walters studied the composition dispassionately, obviously an early studio photograph. The stern appearance of the couple in dark suits and hats, a young child perched erect on the edge of each knee. The little girls identically dressed in white ruffle edged pinafores. Over exaggerated bows adorned their long curls. Both wore the same serious expression as their parents. They looked scared to death. Every picture tells a story. Walters wondered what their story had been. If he was correct in his assumptions, he knew how the life of one of the children in the photograph, bleached of colour, had come to its sad demise. Although it was freezing outside, the paper forensic suit he was obligated to wear, on top of his own two piece made him feel constricted and agitated in the centrally heated room. Replacing the photo frame back onto the mantelpiece, Walters rubbed a couple of fingers between his neck and the stiff collar of the newly purchased shirt. He wished he’d followed the manufacturer’s instructions and washed before wear. He loosened his tie a little in an effort to relieve the chaffing.

  Mark Walters was a man of average height and build. His sandy coloured hair had receded over the past few years, encouraging the commencement of a widow’s peak. Piercing blue eyes were set beneath finely arched eyebrows in a pale, freckle filled face. The detective inspector had been in the force for nearly twenty years. The nearest he’d come to a murder case was a hit and run accident way back. He was more used to dealing with robberies and the odd domestic. This eventuality was the last thing he expected, or needed.

  Walters turned to his colleague, Detective Sergeant Arnold Cooper. He felt himself obliged to say, ‘who found the body?’

  The words once out of his mouth, made him feel foolish, as though he was in a play. He half expected at any moment the curtains to come down and all the actors to be back on their feet to thunderous applause, the red stage makeup easy to remove. But there was to be no standing ovation. The room remained quiet. If only walls could talk, he thought. It would certainly make his job right now a hell of a lot simpler. Walters took in the small, uncluttered and as far as he could tell, undisturbed room and wondered where the bloody hell he went from there.

  ‘The niece,’ Cooper responded to the inspector’s question.

  ‘That must have been nice for her.’

  Finally, Walters came and stood next to the sergeant standing over the body of the dead woman, identified as seventy five year old Ruth Montgomery. She lay slumped in the chair, half of her head caved in. The dark brown stain of congealed dried blood matted the woman’s short grey hair in stark contrast. Her inanimate lined face, a mask, drained of any trace of colour as though she’d had a visit from a famished vampire during the night. An unexplainable sadness seeped through Walters. He’d never seen this woman before yet she looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps she reminded him a little of his own mother. The thought triggere
d more self guilt as Walters realised he’d only visited his mum once in the last month. Not that Mrs Walters would complain of her only son’s thoughtlessness. Walters’ mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease four years previously. Her decline had been rapid, going from slightly forgetful, to off the planet. It still tore him in two as he remembered the woman she used to be, before the onset of the cruel illness which had turned him into a stranger in his mother’s eyes.

  ‘No sign of a break in,’ Arnold Cooper’s voice cut through Walters’ thoughts. Back door and front door both secure. Although the safety chain on the front door wasn’t in place. Back door double bolted, as well as key turned. So I think we’re safe to assume the killer gained entrance through the front door and left the same way. Looks like the old girl was safety conscious, there appear to be locks on all of the windows.’

  ‘Not safety conscious enough though, hey detective sergeant, the woman let her killer in.’ Walters sighed heavily.

  ‘Perhaps she knew the person.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. However, even if she didn’t, she must have been happy enough to remove the chain on the door. That’s if the old girl had deployed it in the first place, of course.’ Walters wasn’t ruling out the possibility that she hadn’t. He knew from personal experience how forgetful the aged could be. Maybe she thought she’d put the chain in place, only realising too late she hadn’t. He ran his fingers through his hair. The disturbed strands stood on end like a cock’s comb. ‘There appear to be no obvious signs of a struggle having occurred. No scuff marks on the rugs. No overturned furniture. Television’s still in situ so it doesn’t have the appearance of a burglary gone awry.’