by Joy Ellis
‘And Terry Harvey declined to speak to us. Well, his very pregnant wife told us to fuck off, so same difference.’
‘I thought I recognised the name and I’ve just run a check on him.’ Joseph read from a memo. ‘Drugs offences mainly — shoplifting, handbag snatching, and two of his many children are in care.’
‘Well, if this morning is anything to go by, there’s little prospect of an exciting afternoon.’ Nikki looked at the remaining names. ‘I suggest we have lunch, then Joseph and I will go to Skegness and speak to Sally Gilmore, and Cat and Yvonne search out the other two in West Salterby and Quintin Eaudyke.’
‘We’ve drawn the short straw, Cat. No cockles for you today.’ Yvonne hung her head in mock dismay.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about the length of the straw, Vonnie.’ Nikki smiled, but her eyes were serious. ‘Dr Draper was convinced that the Gilmore girl was sexually abused, and her father was strongly in favour of the villagers taking things into their own hands.’
They all looked at the doctor’s notes:
‘Found by two other children in the churchyard. She was in a state of agitation and distress, her clothes torn and bloodstained. They took her home, where she declared that she had been attacked by a black dog. No trace of any such animal was found. Linda saw the three children as they made their way into the Gilmore’s cottage. She noticed the blood on the lower part of Sally’s torn dress, but Bert Gilmore said, ‘It was nothing, not as bad as it looked,’ and closed the door on her. Sally became sullen and uncommunicative in the following months, rarely leaving home and often playing truant from school. Neither Linda nor I ever noticed anything in the way of bite marks or defensive wounds on the child. We supposed the dog attack to be a fabrication, and from the condition of her torn clothing, that she had been sexually attacked.’
Cat lowered the sheet of paper and sighed. ‘I wonder what state she will be in.’
Nikki glanced up at the newly arrived wall clock. ‘Let’s get lunch, shall we? We’ll soon find out.’
* * *
Yvonne pulled into the small, deserted car park behind West Salterby police station. It was a grand title for a building about the size of a public convenience. The station consisted of an office, a tiny kitchenette and a store cupboard. Manned by a single officer, it was only open for a few hours each day. This officer spent the rest of his time policing a tiny population spread across acres of empty farmland and marsh. No wonder PC Steve Royal wanted out.
‘Lawksy me!’ said Steve in a bad imitation of the local accent. ‘A visitation from CID! Whatever’s happened? Someone selling black market cauliflowers in Greenborough street market?’
Yvonne nodded to the tall, muscular copper. ‘Hello, Steve. No, nothing agricultural this time. We just want a word with a chap who lives in the village here, fellow called Peter Lee. Do you know him?’
Steve ran a tanned hand through his cropped hair and his cheerful expression disappeared. ‘Yes, I know him. In fact I’m trying to settle a dispute between him and his neighbour, hopefully before it turns nasty.’
‘What’s it about?’ asked Cat.
‘A caravan. You know what it’s like out here, DC Cullen, nearly every bit o’ empty ground has a rotting static on it somewhere. They use ’em for everything and anything. Putting up casual workers, storing seed trays, breeding canaries, place to put your spare tractor parts, you name it. Peter Lee’s neighbour uses his as a dog kennel for his old boxer bitch. Lee reckons it’s an eyesore and wants it moved.’
‘Is he being reasonable?’
‘No way! The caravan isn’t anywhere near his boundary, and it’s not a wreck either. He’s just a grumpy old sod. If it wasn’t that, it’d be something else.’
Cat looked surprised. ‘Surely he’s only in his early forties?’
‘Yeah, going on ninety-five. What do you want to talk to him about anyway?’
‘The Hammond case,’ said Yvonne. ‘You know, that thirty-year-old murder?’
‘I bet he did it, Vonnie. An’ he wouldn’t have needed a weapon either. He would have bored them to death.’
Cat grinned. ‘Want to come with us, Constable? Seeing as how he’s such a pal of yours.’
‘Love to. But I’ve just remembered an important case I have to deal with. Some cunning devil has been stealing organic parsnips, and using them for highly immoral purposes.’ Steve’s face remained impassive.
Cat looked at him. ‘You are joking!’
‘You can never be sure round here.’ Steve rolled his eyes. ‘Lee lives in the row of detached cottages behind the bakery. Good luck!’
* * *
Peter Lee examined their IDs minutely, and immediately launched into a long diatribe about his neighbour and his caravan. It took Yvonne some time to explain that they were here to talk to him about Gordon Hammond.
The stream of words dried up.
Peter Lee pursed his narrow lips and stared belligerently from one to the other. Over his front gate — they were allowed no further — he told them they should find better things to do with their time. He turned his back on them, went into his old cottage and slammed the door.
Cat studied the overgrown garden, the fishpond full of rotting leaves and the peeling paintwork. ‘He’s rude, bad-tempered, angry . . . and he’s terrified. Did you see his face when you mentioned finding Gordon’s body? This is all very odd, isn’t it?’
‘That it is.’ Yvonne sighed. ‘One last visit, and if Sarah Archer tells us to bugger off as well, we’ll have a full house of failures.’
* * *
They were pleasantly surprised when Sarah Archer welcomed them in and offered them tea. She plumped up cushions and fussed around while they waited to take their seats.
It took Cat two minutes, and Yvonne about two and a half, to realise that she was, well, barking mad.
Her parents, both still alive, were away for the day in Lincoln, Sarah said. She proceeded to give the two officers a tour of the house and garden.
Every room was clean, tidy and fresh smelling. Proudly, Sarah opened the door to her bedroom. Arranged around a small single bed with a pink and white duvet set were teddy bears, dolls and soft toys. They filled the shelves, and sat on chairs and the floor. Some even hung from the ceiling. Yvonne and Cat said little. They didn’t need to, their hostess gabbled away without a break.
The large garden was a live version of the bedroom, filled with hutches, pens and kennels. Dogs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs, a chinchilla, chicken and even a fox cub stared back at them from quarters as clean as the cottage. Eventually, Yvonne managed to convey the reason for their visit, but this child in a woman’s body looked blankly at them. She was sorry but she’d never heard of anyone called Hammond.
On their way back to Greenborough, Cat re-read Dr Draper’s notes on Sarah Archer, aged six.
We only found out a month after the occurrence, so it was impossible to investigate, but Sarah had gone missing for an entire day and night. She was found out on the edge of Carter’s Fen, in a concrete pill box, one of those left over from the war. Apparently her wrists and ankles had been secured with twine. We never heard what injuries she sustained, nothing was apparent when we saw her later. She too joined the ever-growing ranks of silent, frightened, introspective children in Quintin Eaudyke.
‘You would hardly call her silent now, would you?’ said Yvonne.
Cat closed her file and stared out across the endless fields of sugar beet foliage. ‘Vonnie? In our job we see it all the time. People suffer terrible traumas. They have the most appalling things done to them, suffer unspeakable tragedies, but somehow they get over them, in order to survive they find a way to come to terms with the past. Believe me, I’m not trying to belittle what happened, but we’ve met hundreds of survivors of abuse, and at least outwardly some of them appear normal. What is it with all these guys? They are completely destroyed, every one of them.’
‘Let’s save the analysis for the debriefing, shall we?’ Yvonne was watchi
ng the long, straight road ahead.
‘I gather, WPC Yvonne Collins, that you don’t have a bleeding clue either!’
‘None whatsoever, Detective Constable! I’m just hoping the boss still has a few grey cells functioning, because I’m damn sure mine aren’t.’
* * *
Joseph stared once more at the makeshift evidence board and rubbed his eyes hard. ‘So, what we have is one, maybe two, lucid, and, er, sane witnesses?’
‘I’d stick to just the one.’ Nikki pointed to the board. ‘I still think this one, the apparently normal and capable Delia Roberts, is a bloody good actress. I was suspicious of the way she avoided giving any direct answers. So, to summarise. Out of seven adults — four females and three males — we have one nervous wreck, one agoraphobic, one drug addict, one middle-aged woman behaving like a nine-year-old, an aggressive recluse, a workaholic who can’t answer questions, and, praise be, Mrs Sally King, nee Gilmore, a happily married mother of two. She’s a very helpful and pleasant care worker who is at present doing a three-year course on people-centred counselling. As far as we can make out, of all of them she’s the one who has every reason to be totally off the wall!’
Joseph massaged his aching neck. ‘Apart from her, they are all displaying signs of trauma, denial and even fear.’
‘Of someone who has been dead for thirty years? Why?’ Cat bit her thumbnail.
Yvonne shrugged. ‘To be fair, they only hoped he was dead. Nobody ever proved that he had drowned. Maybe it was the not knowing that got to them.’
‘Maybe, Yvonne, but these are adults, for heaven’s sake! Aren’t children supposed to be resilient? Kids usually find a way to cope, even if they bury the hurt or pain really deep. Most learn to get on with their lives, they have to.’ Cat’s voice shook with emotion. ‘You have to, or the abuser wins. And if that happen . . .’ she threw up her hands and fell silent.
The others were also silent for a moment, and then Joseph said softly, ‘That sounds like it came from the Personal Experience school of psychology.’
‘It’s from the Shit Happens school, actually.’ Cat looked down.
Nikki steered them back to practicalities. ‘Next step is to interview the remaining parents. The man that intrigues me most is Quintin’s old master butcher, Cyril Roberts, as well as his ex-wife. I’ll be very interested to know what he says when he hears his old friend was murdered. I’d like to find out if he really did suspect someone else of the child abuse. So tomorrow morning, bright and early, unless we are back with Madeline Prospero, we take on Quintin Eaudyke’s older generation.’
The others departed, leaving Nikki and Joseph by themselves in the big old mess room.
‘What time do Tamsin and Niall get in?’
Joseph glanced at his watch. ‘In about half an hour. They’ll have to clear customs and drive back here, so I expect they’ll be in their cottage by half ten, if nothing goes wrong.’
‘Are you going to welcome them?’ Nikki asked.
He grinned. ‘No way! Their first night in their marital home? Are you kidding?’
‘So, is this our big chance to grab a takeaway and a bottle of vino?’
His face clouded over. Nikki saw it and threw him a lifeline. ‘Sorry, I take that back. I forgot, I’m calling into Eve’s after work. She’ll probably have rustled something up.’ She smiled at him, hurting inside. ‘Another night, huh?’
He nodded. ‘Absolutely, as soon as possible.’ He stared down at his feet. ‘I am getting somewhere with Laura. I think she’s beginning to realise that she can’t use me as a crutch and that she has to move on.’ His voice was despondent. ‘But not quickly enough for my liking.’
That makes two of us, thought Nikki grimly. ‘Do what you need to, Joseph, and remember, you know where I am if you need me.’
‘I’m sorry, Nikki. This is not of my making, you do know that, don’t you?’
Nikki thought she had never seen him look so miserable. ‘Of course I do, numpty! Now, pin back your ears and listen while I tell you about a certain invite my mother’s just had. It could be very fortunate for us.’
Nikki was in mid flow when she heard a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
Spooky stuck her head in and whistled. ‘My! Your decor goes from strength to strength, doesn’t it?’
‘Come on in, Terence Conran.’ Nikki peered at her face, and then she grinned. ‘You got it, didn’t you?’
‘I sure did! Get out that champagne right now!’
Joseph stood up. ‘I’ll leave you two to chat. See you in the morning.’
‘Crack of dawn, so we can take on Quintin Eaudyke before they are fully awake.’
‘I’ll be here.’ He gave Spooky a little bow. ‘Congratulations! I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you from now on.’
‘As long as my accommodation is a little more up-to-date than Nikki’s.’
Joseph laughed. ‘You should be alright, the rest of the building was rebuilt, all nice and modern. It’s just us that have an ancient ruin.’
‘And if you do get an old stockroom, try to think of it as character building,’ said Nikki.
‘Sod that! I’ve got quite enough character, thanks. What I need is big power cables and racks of servers.’ Spooky laughed. ‘Actually I’ve seen the rooms, and they are great. I can’t wait to get started.’ She looked at Nikki. ‘And now I need to get home to give Bliss the good news. I just had to let you know first.’
‘Before you go, I need to run something past you. Can you stay for just a few minutes?’
Spooky sat down. ‘Is it about Maddie?’
‘Kind of. The thing is, someone quite close to me has had an informal invite to go along to the Briar Patch. Would you keep an eye on her for me? She’s new to the area and no one knows she has a connection to the police force. She could be a very valuable asset.’
Spooky nodded. ‘Of course. Any idea who invited her?’
‘A member who belongs to an art club, Grace Campion?’
‘Mm, she’s a great landscape artist, and she does go to a Greenborough art group. How do you want me to play it?’
‘I’ll tell her about you, just so she knows who to contact if she needs any help, but other than that just keep watch. If you get too friendly, they might suspect something.’
‘Understood. Just let me know when she plans on going and I’ll make sure I’m there.’
‘Brilliant. Now go tell Bliss that you are gainfully employed at the Cop Shop.’ Nikki stood up. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll go and see my new secret agent and show her a photo of you.’
‘I didn’t know you had one!’
‘That time we won the Culpepper Badminton Trophy? Doubles match against Saltern-le-Fen?’
‘Good Lord! I’d almost forgotten that.’ Spooky paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, what’s this woman’s name?’
‘Eve Anderson.’
‘Nice name.’
‘Nice woman. Take care of her.’
* * *
Dr Draper sank into an old armchair and looked up at his wife. ‘I wish this Hammond thing hadn’t reared its ugly head again.’
‘I don’t suppose you are the only one to think that, dear. There’s one person in particular who’ll be very worried by all the renewed attention.’
He screwed up his brow. ‘Oh? Who?’
‘Whoever killed Gordon, of course.’
‘You really think he is still here?’
Linda shrugged. ‘Who knows? The older ones rarely stray too far, do they?’ She touched her husband’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to get supper. You have a rest and I’ll call you when it’s ready.’
John Draper wondered if they would ever get to the bottom of it all. He stared into the fire and was back there again, sitting in his surgery and looking across his desk at a very angry man.
‘Doctor, I know my child!’
The patient, Bert Gilmore, slammed a clenched fist down onto his desktop, and his stethoscope jumped in the air. A pile of patients’
records went cascading down onto the floor.
He picked them up slowly, giving the man time to calm down. Then he sat back in his chair and surveyed the florid, wide-eyed face. Bert’s jaw protruded. It was clamped so tight that his lips, chapped by the wind, could hardly be seen.
Bert was the third parent this month to come to him for a wonder pill, some miracle tonic that would restore their sullen, uncommunicative offspring to their former mischievous selves.
He sighed. He wished he had such an elixir to ease their pain. He dearly wanted to help the children, but he was dealing with distraught and poorly educated mothers and fathers. Their outlook was almost medieval. ‘I’m sorry, Bert. I don’t have anything I can give her. We need to make her tell us what is wrong. We have to find out what the underlying problem is before I can do anything to help her.’
Bert Gilmore expelled a lungful of air and slumped forward, his head in his hands. ‘She won’t talk. Not to her mam. Not to her brothers, and certainly not to me.’ His voice was hoarse, and he spoke slowly.
‘Can I try, Bert? Would you let me talk to her, away from you and the family? I’d have Mrs Draper with me. Perhaps she might open up to us?’
Bert’s eyes narrowed. ‘What? And use some o’ your new-fangled mind games on her? I’ve read about all that malarkey in the papers, hypnotism and the like. She’s not barmy, yer know! It’s probably just growing pains, nothing that a good tonic wouldn’t fix.’ The eyes were pleading.
‘You know full well it isn’t growing pains, Bert. And I just want to talk to her, that’s all, get her to trust me, then she might tell me what happened.’
He had been down this road before, first with Fred and Ellen Cartwright, then Bill and Lily Harvey. Both times he was met with the same suspicious expressions. Apparently overnight, Millie Cartwright, Terry Harvey, and now Sally Gilmore, had withdrawn like hermit crabs into their shells, shutting out their bewildered parents who had no idea what had happened. He added these cases to the vicious attack on Lucy Clark the previous month, and Sergeant Ron Barnes’s off the record suspicion that little George Ackroyd had been ‘interfered with,’ and he became certain that the villagers of sleepy Quintin Eaudyke had a child molester in their midst.