Only she hadn’t drowned, had she? She had been shot through the heart.
The day, unsurprisingly, brought forth no more information. But, though routine matters filled the hours, the mystery woman was with Mayo, occupying the back of his mind like the shadow behind him, and he was once again studying the map on the wall when Abigail came in, in answer to his summons, about half-past five.
‘Tea?’ He waved a hand towards the teapot on his desk which his secretary, Delia, always brought in last thing before going home. Having experienced this beverage before, Abigail hesitated, but eventually poured herself a cup and refilled his empty one and took both over to where he stood. She sipped cautiously at the strong Indian brew which was what a Yorkshireman like Mayo considered to be a good cup of tea. It was also stewed, but she managed not to pucker her lips.
‘Have a look at this, Abigail.’
It was a detailed, coloured map showing the whole of the Division. Limited by the yellow snake of the M6 on one side, on the other the industrial sprawl of Holden Hill and the old scars of steelworks, abandoned coal and clay mines as the roads reached out to the Birmingham suburbs. The map-markings, circled by the bypass, showed dense in the town centre, then thinned out towards the residential areas. In and amongst were the green islands of parks and recreation grounds: the Stockwell and its tributaries showed blue; the canal wound lazily through the whole area. The one-dimensional map gave no indication of the undulations of the area, how the streets of its old quarter sloped gently down to the river; how the blue hills rose on one side, from the top of which it was possible to see right into Wales on a clear day How the land lay flat for the most part on the other, before its descent into the valley.
The map was large-scale, and also showed the course of the Kyne, its total length not more than seven or eight miles, down which the body had floated, though not far enough. Abigail tried to envisage the land as it was in reality: the source of the stream was several miles out of the town, the only indication of its whereabouts a wet patch surrounded by reeds in the middle of a field, unless those same fields became waterlogged with excessive rain; then water spread outwards and channelled itself into a stream, flowing down the slope past Covert Farm and alongside Wych Cottage, until it spread out again on the flat land of the Kyneford estate.
Twenty years ago, Kyneford had been little more than a hamlet surrounded by an undistinguished tract of scrubland. Now, since the land had been released for development, it had become a great spread of houses, set out in crescents, avenues and closes. Of particular interest in view of their easy access to the stream was Pinfold Lane, a row of bungalows, where several of the small gardens reached right down to its edge. Built on land that had always been prone to flooding (a fact which the developer had failed to point out to intending buyers), most of the gardens had been under water during the recent floods, if not most of the houses themselves. But enquiries had drawn a blank there, like everywhere else.
After leaving the estate, the stream flowed alongside an abandoned brickworks and then down into Lavenstock’s outer suburbs. Crossing a recreation ground, through a culvert under the main railway line, it emerged in the industrial park, passed the brewery and finally flowed into the Stockwell. All the while gathering momentum, especially when swollen, as it had been recently, with flood water.
‘But why?’ Abigail murmured thoughtfully.
‘Why was she put in there? Or why was she put in the river at all? You tell me. What puzzles me,’ he said, stabbing his forefinger at the map, allowing her to take away his empty cup and giving her the opportunity to tip her own into a rubber plant, ‘is why anybody should have dumped her at that particular point. Between where she was found and the source of the Kyne, there’s only Covert Farm, Wych Cottage and the beginning of the housing estate, there, on Pinfold Lane. Whoever chose the spot must have realised she might be found quite soon, and that would pretty well define the limits of our search.’
‘Yes, they’d have done better to have put her in lower down, where the current gathers force. Unless they hoped she’d be swept down with the other debris and carried right down into the Stockwell? Which, but for getting snagged on that tree, she probably would have been.’
Mayo rubbed a hand across his face. ‘It’s a bugger, this, and right, isn’t it? We’re on a hiding to nothing until we find out who she was. And don’t tell me what I already know – that we’re running out of steam.’ The hollow feeling in his guts told him that this, another shooting, could well join the Fermanagh file. A thought insinuated itself. Could the murder of Miss X have been another drug-related crime? It was a depressing thought which he didn’t care to examine at that particular moment.
‘Have another look at this, will you?’ He slid the discouragingly thin buff folder which held all the dead woman’s case notes across to Abigail. ‘On the offchance that anything strikes you.’
While she scanned it for the umpteenth time, he sat at his desk, picking things up and putting them down again, staring absent-mindedly through the window at his old familiar foes, the scruffy pigeons, settling on the Town Hall for the night. He watched one land on a narrow window ledge, close to three others already perched there. Like fastidious old ladies moving away from an unwelcome tramp who’d decided to occupy the same park bench, the three began a shuffling, sideways progress, closely followed by the intruder, which resulted in them being forced off the far edge one by one, leaving the victor alone to preen himself. Obviously a natural for heading the pecking order. Like some humans he knew.
As she read, Abigail absently munched through two of the peanut butter cookies which had come with the tea. ‘Nothing new,’ she said, closing the file.
Neither said anything more for a moment and then, as if continuing that previous thought of his own, she said casually, ‘The promotion board’s been fixed for next month.’
He breathed a silent, selfish and entirely unworthy wish that she might not be successful, then cancelled it. It wasn’t possible she wouldn’t be, anyway. He, and everyone else, would just have to get used to not seeing her energetic, sparky presence about the place. He’d miss her quick intuition and her capacity for unquestioning hard slog when it was necessary – even her sometimes too blunt outspokenness. On a more frivolous note, attractive faces and shining bronze hair were thin on the ground in CID – and there was no one else who could deal with Farrar at his most obnoxious, though Farrar was, if anyone dared hope, becoming less of a pain. At least treading more circumspectly since his long-awaited appointment to acting sergeant.
God, what was he thinking of? He’d always known Abigail wouldn’t be with him for ever – she was university-educated, a high-flyer on her way up. He’d been lucky that she’d stayed here so long, he supposed – without flattering himself that it was due to the attractions of the Lavenstock Division. Or even his charisma as a boss. Part of the reason why she’d stayed was because promotion would almost certainly mean a move away from the area, and that would mean a move away from that journalist, the editor of the local newspaper. Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, in Mayo’s admittedly jaundiced opinion.
However, though her own ambitions were paramount, he, Ben Appleyard, probably was a factor in Abigail’s decision to apply for promotion. Mayo suspected a certain conflict of interest had arisen between them over the reportage of the Fermanagh murder. Actually, he knew it had. Alex, who was close friends with Abigail, had told him there was a coolness between Ben and Abigail lately, and she was certain that was the reason. Left to himself, Mayo might never even have thought of it, but when it was pointed out to him, he couldn’t help noticing certain signs that confirmed it.
Then, coming very opportunely, a vacancy had arisen for a detective chief inspector in the next Division, in Hurstfield, which wasn’t more than a spit and a jump away. And since Detective Superintendent Glenda (‘Flossie’) Nightingale had retired, there’d been nothing to stop Abigail applying for the job. Mayo couldn’t visualise any way she
would ever have worked voluntarily again under Nightingale, after having been compelled to do so when the woman had been seconded here a couple of years ago. As it was, now, she wouldn’t need to. There was nothing to stop her getting the promotion, and therefore the job, he was convinced. And so, evidently, was she. Like the old toothpaste ad, she had that ring of confidence about her. She was going to need all her not inconsiderable powers of push, but when had that ever stopped Abigail from doing anything?
‘Good luck,’ he said and yes, he really did mean it.
‘Thanks.’ She looked radiant. ‘Maybe it was tempting fate, but I stopped and looked in Tixall’s Estate Agents in Sheep Street on the way here this morning. My God, you should see what houses round here are fetching!’
‘So now’s the time to sell.’
‘Looks like that, but I don’t know if I could bear to – I’ve put my soul into that house.’ She smiled ironically, though it was near the truth. She’d bought her cottage for a song, against all advice, when it was a near ruin, and she’d never regretted putting all her spare money into having it gradually repaired and restored. She’d had to make do with scouring markets and car boot sales for furnishings, but she’d had great fun learning how to do them up. It was a long way from perfect yet, but it was comfortable and appealing, and now that she’d opened up its possibilities, she hoped that prospective buyers wouldn’t be slow to see its further potential. It would be a wrench, leaving it, but there were other houses.
Oh, but the garden, that she’d so lovingly created, that she loved almost more than the house!
And then there was Ben. Well, yes, Ben.
The truth was, let’s face it, she thought, leaving both house and garden would be more traumatic than leaving Ben. Mainly because she wouldn’t really be leaving him at all, only moving a bit further away – Hurstfield wasn’t far. It might be better for both of them to be further apart, in the circumstances. They’d never quite got it together, the idea of sharing a home. It suited them, living separately, as they did. Especially now, when they were not exactly seeing eye to eye, or to put it more bluntly, in the middle of a major row. Words had been bandied, unforgivable things said, words like ‘lack of integrity’ and ‘bloody ambitious females’ hurled between them. It was time for distancing, at least until tempers cooled.
And in any case, Ben had never had any scruples about abandoning her in the past, when some more exciting job prospect had presented itself … Now it was her turn, Abigail told herself, feeling childish but unrepentant.
On the whole, however, more adult feelings prevailed, that it was time to put to the test a theory she’d had for some time: she’d railed against their enforced separations in the past but perhaps that was what kept their relationship alive. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought this, but it was the first time she’d thought it seriously.
She closed the file and shifted on her seat. She looked at Mayo. Should she, or shouldn’t she?
Then, with an impetuosity worthy of her fellow inspector, Martin Kite, she blurted out: ‘That leak, to the press. I’d just like to say that – it didn’t come from me.’
He put down the pen he’d been clicking and regarded her steadily. ‘I never for a moment thought it had, Abigail.’
Whether he was speaking the strict truth or not, it sounded genuine – at least indicated he wasn’t saving anything up for some future occasion. She felt a rush of relief, unnecessary, for since when had Mayo ever been one to hold a grudge? You might get a right bollocking at the time, if you did the wrong thing, but he never bore malice. Bluntly north country, he said what he thought, and then forgot it. ‘Nothing more we can do here tonight. Go home, and have an early night, while you’ve got the chance.’
She heard herself saying, ‘No rush, Ben’s away at the moment.’
She hadn’t been fishing, honest she hadn’t, but now was the chance for him to suggest that since Alex was too, they could grab a meal together, but he merely said, with a smile, ‘An even earlier night, then.’
She could have suggested the meal herself, of course she could, but she was, as always, wary that it might have been construed wrongly. The thought that she could easily, if she let herself, find him very attractive, was intermittent, but never all that far away. Nor was the thought that he was her best chum’s man. Rubbish! A quick meal with a colleague, what was wrong with that? Nothing, if the colleague wasn’t Mayo.
He said kindly, ‘You’re looking tired, lass. Do as I suggested, and get off home. And that’s an order.’
They just didn’t have any idea, did they, men?
3
‘I know the house is going to rack and ruin, my lovey, I know it is, but what can I do?’
Eileen Totterbridge poured Sam a mug of her thick, bracing tea, added milk, sweetened it the way she knew he’d always liked it and passed it across the kitchen table. Sam leaned his broad shoulders against the high-backed kitchen chair, raised his mug to her and sipped. Nectar! He never felt he was really home again until he’d been rejuvenated by Mrs Totty’s tea and entertained by her conversation. She was just the same, too, his lovely Mrs Totty, whom he’d known all his life. Burbling on, comforting, kind, her round face concerned as she tried to excuse the deteriorating condition of 16 Kelsey Road, even though it wasn’t remotely her responsibility.
‘You can’t do any more than you do,’ he reassured her. ‘Which is more than any of us have a right to expect in the circumstances.’
‘Oh, rubbish! If I can’t manage two mornings a week, after all these years, I don’t know what. I’d come in more, willingly, you know I would, but there’s my other cleaning job, and Joe, and there’s the grandchildren. Seven of’em, now, and their mums have to go out to work, Sam, you know how it is. Nobody can live on one wage nowadays, or nobody wants to, and that’s the truth.’
Sam reached out for a chocolate Hobnob and thought it wiser not to mention her increasing age, which must also be a contributing factor. She really ought to be retired altogether. Her fingers were knobbly with arthritis, and he’d noticed how much more stiffly she was moving, but he knew she hated the idea of not being as active as she had been all her life: she was into her seventies but she’d always said it would be the beginning of the end if she’d nothing better to do than discuss her ailments. Apart from that, she wasn’t looking a scrap different – her hair had been resolutely dyed and was as richly brown as ever, done up in a neat perm. The nylon overall over the checked, pleated skirt and a pink, round-necked jumper, the little gilt studs in her ears and the scent of violet talc were reassuringly as they’d always been.
‘I’m sure Dorrie’s only too glad you can come in at all,’ he said.
‘Yes, well.’ She looked as though she was about to say more, but hesitated, then changed the subject, smiling at him. ‘I must say, it’s grand to see you looking so well, Sam, dear. How’ve you got so brown, then, when they don’t have any sun down there? Come on, have another biscuit, you need feeding, a big chap like you, though you don’t look as though they’ve been starving you, I’ll say that! Isn’t it wonderful what they can do nowadays? Even down at the South Pole.’
Sam smiled his slow, attractive smile and stretched his long legs. He hadn’t exactly been living on the fat of the land recently, while working as a geophysicist, part of an inter-disciplinary research unit on the Polar Ice Cap, but life had been reasonably civilised, the food had been quite amazing, considering. ‘There’s a lot more sun down there than up here, sometimes, and no, we haven’t been living on whale meat and pemmican, exactly.’
‘I can see that – oh, it’s grand to have you back, my lovey, we’ve all missed you, especially Dorrie. She’s been like a dog with two tails ever since she heard you were coming home, and no wonder. It’ll do her the world of good to have you here. Three years, it’s a long time when you’re knocking on, like we are.’
He smiled, wondering what his Aunt Dorrie would think of that comparison. Mrs Totty could give Dorrie ten years,
though despite that, and her hard life, she’d come out better on the whole. Dorrie had changed, not physically, but in some other, indefinable way … she was still the same odd, eccentric little person he’d always known, soft floppy hair pulled back from her face into a knot, a thick fringe falling over her eyes and seriously interfering with the big, round, owlish glasses. Still with the same soft, slow, solemn way of talking, and the sudden smile that, had he known it, echoed his own. A sweet contentment had always seemed part of her, though sometimes he thought he’d detected faint echoes of sadness. A regret, perhaps, for something that had never been, but it was hard to say what, so faintly and so occasionally was it glimpsed. Missed opportunities perhaps. Dorrie had never had a career, never married, never, so far as he was aware, even had a love affair.
Sam Leadbetter had been orphaned at an early age, and though he’d spent most of his time at boarding school, the house in Kelsey Road was home to him, the place he’d always come back to in the holidays, back to Dorrie. His beloved aunt, his mother’s sister, was his only living relative, the person he’d loved most in the world, despite realising, as he grew older, that she wasn’t quite like other people. The amused glances that followed them whenever they went out had first told him that, Dorrie looking like a bag lady in a haphazard collection of garments, with her hair escaping from its knot into straggling wisps round her face. Sometimes wellingtons on her feet with an old cotton dress, if she’d forgotten to change them after gardening, or dressed up in ancient finery, as if for a garden party, to go and buy vegetables. Her mother’s tatty old musquash fur coat and her strange hats. The indulgent way the shopkeepers treated her, the way the vicar humoured her because she was more than generous with her donations to church funds – but also, Sam had come to believe, because he was fond of her as well. Anyone who really knew Dorrie couldn’t help loving her. Old Dorrie Lockett, mad as a hatter.
Untimely Graves Page 3