Angela's Dead

by Lou Peters

  ‘Yes, that’s the man.’

  ‘He was lovely; Ruth missed out on that one.’

  ‘Did you ever speak to him?’

  ‘You joking,’ course I did. I wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that pass me by.’

  ‘And what did you talk to him about?’

  ‘Can’t remember that, give me a break, anything, he was gorgeous. I know he was far too young for the likes of me, but why weren’t there men around like that, when I was in me thirties? Not only was he a looker, but he had this quiet charm about him, beautiful eyes, wide smiling mouth with incredibly white teeth, a bit like Starsky, only better looking.’

  ‘Who?’ Cooper asked

  ‘You know, Starsky. Starsky and Hutch, Huggy Bear.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I’ll explain it to you later, detective sergeant.’

  ‘Anyway, this guy was a rarity.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Because he didn’t know how gorgeous he was, but that of course made him all the more attractive. Yeah, you don’t need to look at me like that, I know I’m knocking on, but there’s no harm in looking. Don’t forget it was a couple of years ago I’d have only been sixty three then. That’s nothing, look at these people on the telly who are now telling us sixty is the new forty. How old is Jane Fonda? She must be in her seventies and she still looks amazing.’

  Walters didn’t want to be cruel, but the expression chalk and cheese came to mind, comparing the image of the grey haired lump slouched in the chair, in the voluminous top and elasticised waist acrylic trousers, to that of Jane Fonda. ‘And did this Starsky look-alike have any luck with the local woman?’ Walters asked, amused at the elderly woman’s confession.

  ‘No, we reckoned he must be gay, he wasn’t having any of it. Think he was glad when the job was done. It took him the best part of three weeks to finish, maybe longer. Every day, once word had got around, there was an entourage to greet him as he emerged from his van. One of the single mum’s from off the council estate, at the back of the Avenue tried her luck, and she was something, believe you me. Early twenties, long blonde hair, a real stunner, but she got nowhere. I’ve seen these workmen before with their chat up lines, but he wasn’t like that. He just wanted to get on with the job. His little mate wasn’t bad either. Bit on the skinny side, and now I think about it, a bit surly as well. ‘Why do you want to know about the gardener, has he got something to do with Ruth’s death?’

  Walters had to hand it to the woman; she was really on the ball. Nothing was going to sneak past her. Her body might be letting her down; however, her mind for the most part, was still sharp.

  ‘Let’s just say, we need to eliminate him from our enquiries.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’d think he had anything to do with Ruth’s death. She’d already been left for months when work started on her old garden. Mind you, I did keep her informed with what was going on, in a letter I’d sent to her. Told her how she’d missed out on the dish who was digging up her garden and she better come back for a visit and see for herself.’

  ‘But Ruth would have been in her seventies. Would she have been interested to know how good looking the guy was?’

  ‘Jeez, where’s your sense of humour. It had been meant as a joke detective sergeant, bit of light heartedness to brighten up an otherwise grey existence. Anyway, I never received a reply, so maybe I had offended her.’

  The first thing that crossed the Walters’ mind was the thought that the Harrison woman had probably intercepted the letter, and Ruth had never had the chance to read the contents of her friend’s correspondence.

  ‘So you’d never seen him around before? Walters asked, getting back to Johnson. ‘Maybe he’d done some work for Ruth, while she lived there?’

  ‘No, that I would have remembered.’

  ‘Did Ruth ever talk about other family, or friends who possibly could have had a son the same age as Richard Johnson?’

  ‘The only family I know of is her niece and her husband. There was a nephew, but he died. I don’t think he was married, so presume there were no children. The niece does have a son, however, he went to the States, met an American girl while at uni. I bet he was glad to get away from his mother’s clutches. As for friends, I don’t know. She used to talk about a Jim and Meredith, but I never heard her mention children. But of course, that’s not to say there weren’t any.’

  ‘Did Ruth ever mention anyone by the name of Sylvia, or Harry?’ They were the only names the inspector was really interested in. If it proved that Ruth had been friends with these people, then chances are she would also have known the son, solidifying the connection.

  ‘No, those names don’t ring any bells, I’m afraid.’

  It had been a wild shot, to throw the names of Johnson’s parents at Mavis Willoughby, but one he thought worth making, even though it had drawn a blank.

  *

  Later that evening, sitting on the train heading back to Boynton, after collecting their bags and grabbing a hurried meal at the Royal Oak, Walters mulled things over in his mind. The trip had thrown up some unexpected results. Not least, it’d disproved Rowena Harrison’s theory that Charlie Coventry was a gold digger, quite the opposite in fact. Walters couldn’t wait to let the old hag know what she’d missed out on, and if she’d only encouraged her aunt in that direction… Who knows, eventually she might’ve been in line for a giant payout, when the time came. Far greater than anything she could expect to inherit from her aunt’s current estate. Walters wouldn’t be able to say that to the woman in so many words, of course. However, he was sure as hell going to make sure she got his meaning. The other thing of great interest which the detectives had chanced across was the double murder of the two little girls who’d lived in close proximity to Mrs. Montgomery. In reality, could the old woman have known the identity of the killer? Maybe she’d kept it to herself for all these years. Then why would she want to divulge what she knew now, and risk being killed to prevent her exposing that identity? Walters closed his eyes hoping for inspiration as he let his thoughts run on. Unless she’d only recently found out who that person had been, but how? Perhaps the one incident bore no relation to the other. It was a puzzle right enough and one Walters was no nearer to solving. The steady rhythm of the clickerty-clack of train on track, along with the motion of the gentle swaying carriage, soon had Walters nodding off to sleep. Giving his mind the well earned rest it required, re-energising his brain cells for the next phase of the enquiry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Sunday Morning 13 December 2009

  As was always the case, it’d seemed like a good idea at the time. That morning however, Rachel was paying the price.

  ‘Bloody hell, did we really get through all those bottles?’

  She looked at the empties lined up accusingly on the kitchen work surface, three in total, two bottles of white and a bottle of red wine with three quarters of the contents missing. Not remembering she’d uncorked a fourth, until she’d opened the fridge door and seen the last couple of inches of the Sauvignon Blanc sitting guiltily on the shelf. She placed her hand against her aching head. No wonder she felt like she did. Rachel grabbed a chunk of cheese to temporarily assuage her post drink attack of the munchies. Nibbling on the cheddar she had a sudden mental image of her liver, disgorged and discoloured, making her resolve to temper her drinking. Jackie was still sleeping. Rachel had quietly poked her head around the sitting room door and seen her, like an oversized papoose, enclosed in the duvet. The only sign of Jack’s presence had been tufts of straggly blonde hair sticking up against the cushion, and the gentle rise and fall of the bedding corresponding with her breathing.

  Rachel slipped on her coat without fastening it. She took her mug of coffee outside. The sky had rained itself out overnight and although the grey clouds remained, there were breaks in the surface and patches of brilliant blue gleamed beneath. She wandered down the path towards the river. Trying her best to avoid the r
ain soaked grass, wishing she’d thought to put on her wellingtons. Her canvas pumps sodden by the time she’d reached halfway down the garden.

  After the night’s continual downpour, the Rase had risen considerably. The water now edged onto the fields across the opposing bank. Tall, stout grasses and bulrushes growing along the bank-side were almost totally submerged. Buffeted by the various swirling currents, their tips disappeared, re-emerging as the swollen mass of water thundered on its way. As always, it felt cooler by the river. Rachel pulled her coat closer about her. Her thoughts as usual, were focused on Richard. She needed to know where he was. What had happened to him, even if it was bad news. Not wanting to be left forever wondering. That would drive her crazy. The premise ever present in her mind, it would be so easy for the police to pin the murder on Richard if no other suspect materialised, especially if he wasn’t around to protest his innocence. She gave a helpless sigh, jettisoning the remaining dregs of the coffee onto the ground at her feet. Rachel turned to retrace her steps leaving the river behind. She passed through the gate deep in thought. A sudden gust of wind caught the wrought iron structure, closing it forcefully behind her with an exaggerated clunk. She swivelled round, not sure what or who she expected to see. There was no one there. She shivered, as though some unseen hand had been at work. To compound the bleakness of her mood a magpie settled with a flurry of feathers, onto the bare branches of one of the tall Alders, along the river’s edge. Rachel glanced back at the bird’s monochrome plumage, perched high above the line of the evergreen hedge. It looked at her with beady eyes, its raucous call, loud and sinister, as if it was shouting out a warning to her. The old adage rhymed in her head, one for sorrow, two for joy. She looked quickly around for a second bird, but the magpie was alone.

  Jackie was sitting at the kitchen table when Rachel re-entered the cottage.

  ‘How’s your head this morning?’ She moaned into her hands, as Rachel appeared through the door.

  Exchanging her wet footwear for dry slippers Rachel came to sit at the table. Jack’s eyes were half closed, appearing as no more than slits, peeking out from beneath her long fringe. Her fingers covered her mouth as if wanting to contain something which was desperate to come out. Jackie usually wore contact lenses, but Rachel suspected she wasn’t wearing them that morning. Not the state her eyes were in. The only glasses she had ever witnessed her wear, were of the sun variety, and then they had to be Dolce and Gabbana.

  ‘Pretty much the same as yours, looking at the expression on your face. What I can see of it, that is. Why do we do it?’

  ‘I ask myself that question every time kid, always after the event of course, but it still makes no difference. Perhaps we should be asking ourselves the question, before we start drinking.’

  ‘Yeah, like that would work.’ Rachel responded. ‘Can you imagine me giving you a lecture on the evils of drink, the next time we’re standing at a bar on a Friday night?’

  ‘Not much chance of us doing that these days. But okay, you’ve proved your point. Now can you please stop talking Rache and be a good girl and put the kettle on? And have you got such a thing as a paracetamol?’

  ‘Oh, don’t sound so pathetic.’ Rachel reached for her handbag at the side of her chair. She retrieved a square of silver foil. Popping the blister pack she slid two oblong white tablets under Jack’s nose. ‘Will these do they’re ibuprophen?’

  ‘Just the ticket,’ she left them untouched on the table in front of her. ‘Now if I could have a glass of water, to help me swallow them…’ she ventured in a small whiny voice, not a bit like her own. Her head remained firmly in her hands, as if she was frightened to move. Not sure what the consequences might be, if she took away the support.

  ‘Jack, you’re unbelievable.’ Rachel grinned. Perhaps she hadn’t drank as much as her hung over friend, or maybe it was because she’d stuck to the white wine, while Jackie had gone on to almost polish off a further bottle of red. Although Rachel had obviously been tipsy, if not outright drunk, the evening before, she didn’t feel as bad as she had on waking the previous morning. Maybe falling asleep in an alcoholic haze, more or less, as soon as Rachel had got into bed, had had something to do with it.

  It was Jackie’s final day at the cottage. Last night had turned out to be a full on, going away drinking session. That hadn’t been their intention at the start of the evening. However, one drink had led to another. After awhile Rachel had lost count of the times she’d tripped to the fridge to replenish the glasses with chilled wine. Before they knew it, the two had drunk the house almost dry. Jackie was heading off early afternoon and Rachel couldn’t believe the last three days had passed by so quickly. She had to admit she was going to miss having someone else around. Not relishing the fact once Jack had gone, she’d be entirely on her own. The location was still new to her, making her feel like a stranger in a foreign land. Maybe she would give her mum a call, after all. The thought weighed heavy on her. Rachel decided she would see how things panned out first. She could always call her mother later, after Jackie had gone, if the walls were starting to crowd in on her.

  ‘Do you want any breakfast?’ Rachel enquired. The answering moan precluded the notion.

  Jackie suddenly rose from her seat and with one hand holding her stomach and the other still covering her mouth she made a dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Rachel couldn’t actually hear her throwing up, but guessed that was the reason for her impromptu departure. After awhile, she heard Jackie turn on the bath taps. They had a certain sound, which the taps over the washbasin didn’t. Perhaps a long soak was just the cure Jackie needed.

  The sky, again turning grey and overcast, seemed to match Rachel’s melancholia. The previous azure streaks rubbed out of existence as if by a giant eraser. Rain speckled the panes of glass, carried by the wind that had brought more clouds scudding across the sky. Standing at the kitchen window, Rachel watched a single droplet. Tracing with the tip of her finger the unhurried route the tiny globule took. She’d already decided; she wouldn’t let Jackie see how she was feeling. She would put on a brave face. The last thing Rachel wanted was for her good friend to feel guilty about leaving her. Jack was the best. It was just like her to come to Rachel’s rescue and try to cheer her up. She had lifted her spirits for a while. Had helped Rachel feel things were more normal than they actually were. It was difficult for her to admit to herself that in all probability she would never see Richard again. Walking away from the rain streaked panes, Rachel picked up the frame from off the sideboard. She held the photograph tenderly in her hands, gazing at the image of Richard and the smiling girl beside him, appearing so alive, so happy. A couple in love with life, now that they’d found each other. Rachel wondered for the hundredth time, where he could be, dead, or alive. Unable to part with this treasured snapshot, she’d given the CID men a recent head and shoulders photo of Richard, instead. She’d thought the photograph had been slightly out of focus. However, the policemen had deemed it suitable, so who was she to argue?

  While alone at the kitchen table, Jackie still hibernating in the bathroom, Rachel reflected on her visit to the police station Thursday evening. When the policewoman had been asking for Richard’s identifying marks, Rachel had convinced herself he was dead... but now. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Jackie had asked her yesterday evening, a few drinks down the line, if she thought Richard could still be alive. An insensitive question she knew, but Rachel anaesthetised by alcohol at the time, hadn’t minded. Jackie had gone on to ask, if Richard was alive, where she thought he might have gone. Rachel, answering truthfully, had said she hadn’t the first idea. Was she now merely fooling herself that Richard could still be alive, because Jack had planted the seed inside of her head? Or because she didn’t want to believe he was dead? And if he was alive, where would he have gone? If the police couldn’t find him and to be honest their need was as great as hers, how did she have a hope of finding him? Because you know Richard and the police don’t. That annoying litt
le voice was in her head again. However, this time, it was saying something constructive.

  As it turned out Jackie left earlier than Rachel had hoped, or anticipated. Standing outside of the cottage, holdall at her feet, she’d held Rachel against her in a tight bear hug. Squashing her ribs, reminiscent of the hard embrace she’d given her upon her arrival. After some seconds Jack reluctantly released her. Gazing into Rachel’s eyes, her fingers brushed a stray strand of chestnut hair away from her face and asked, ‘will you be alright?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rachel responded, forcing a smile. What else could she have said?

  Jackie opened the garden gate to walk gracefully to her car. The squeak of the gates hinges remaining audible, despite Richard’s administration of glugs of oil to the rusting parts. Rachel remained the other side of the construction, her face pressed against the framework, as if a prisoner gazing through iron bars. She watched as Jack, all previous traces of hangover dispatched, slide into the driver’s seat, with the effortlessness of a snake. Her overnight bag carelessly tossed onto the back seat. Jackie fluffed up her hair in the driving mirror, checking her teeth for traces of magenta lipstick. Remembering Rachel was watching Jackie threw her a dazzling smile. Turning the key in the ignition, the radio blasted out loud and distorted, disrupting the silence, sending a number of birds fleeing skywards. Jack grinned at her through the lowered window. Pulling a face she instantly switched off the cause of the disturbance. The car was parked in neutral for some seconds, casually idling to warm the engine. Jackie then manoeuvred the vehicle to face in the direction which would allow her to rejoin the lane for her journey back to Chester. Letting out the handbrake she called through the opened car window, re-affirming her promise to phone Rachel, after she’d arrived home. To let her know she was safe and to check everything was okay. Before she finally pulled away, a look of doubt crossed Jackie’s made up face. Rachel could see Jack was having second thoughts about her departure and she’d smiled her reassurance.