by Rebecca Tope
Jeffrey fixed his faded blue eyes on her, unblinking. ‘So – these people murdered her, and then gave her a decent burial? Bit twisted that, wouldn’t ’ee say?’
Maggs wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Well – as I said, I’m only guessing. It might not have been like that at all. Maybe it was just a coincidence.’
He shook his head and turned back to his hedge-trimming. ‘Don’t believe in coincidence, me,’ he muttered. ‘There’s more to it than we’ve thought on, you’ll see. And it ain’t no good for the business, neither. Gives a bad taste to the place.’
Maggs was scuffing the turf with her heel, trying to mark a junction on the ground to coincide with the plan in her hand. ‘Midway between the first beech to the west and the big hawthorn to the east,’ she muttered. ‘What I need is some sticks. Or big stones.’ She dug her heel in deeper, attacking a tussock of coarse grass, trying to make an impression that she could find again. ‘Hello! What’s this?’ she said, as her shoe scraped against something.
‘Careful,’ warned Jeffrey. ‘You might find another body.’
‘You’re not joking,’ she squealed, as an unmistakable bone emerged from beneath her foot. ‘Look at this.’
Warily, he approached, and bent over her find. ‘Too small to be human,’ he said with relief. ‘Been here a while, I’d say. Nothing to get excited about.’
He pulled the white shape free and held up a skull. ‘Sheep,’ he said. The long nose and low cranium seemed to confirm his assertion. Loose teeth rattled slightly as he shook the earth off, and the eye sockets glared blindly at him and Maggs. ‘Not too common to find them in the middle of a field, though,’ he said. ‘Usually get dumped in a ditch. Probably brought here by a dog or a fox.’
‘I don’t like this,’ Maggs complained. ‘What else are we going to find? I’d be scared to dig any more graves, if I were you.’
Jeffrey shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s not going to hurt us, is it? The dead can’t hurt. It might be this field was the village boneyard, years ago, where they put their dead animals. To my knowledge it’s never been much good for crops. Drew’s auntie let it out to grass when she could, but it always had more thistles and nettles than anything else.’
Maggs gave up her measuring and marking. ‘I’ve had enough for today,’ she decided. ‘I’m not in the mood for any of this. That woman’s just going to be the first of a whole run of weird things. I can feel it.’
‘Don’t start all that voodoo shit,’ he told her, suddenly hostile.
‘What d’you mean?’ She stared at him in confusion.
‘Black magic and stuff. Isn’t that what you just said? You people can’t leave it alone, can you?’
Maggs was genuinely bemused. ‘What people? Me and Drew?’ She frowned at him. ‘Can’t leave what alone?’
‘Don’t act stupid,’ he continued, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know where you come from, but sooner or later, blood will work itself out.’
The penny finally dropped. ‘Oh God. You mean because I’m black? Black person, black magic? Voodoo. Jeffrey – Christ, you know that’s crap. You should have more sense. You’ve seen my mum, you know how she brought me up. Isn’t she the most sensible person you could ever meet?’
‘Not your real mum though, is she?’ he muttered.
‘No,’ said Maggs, on a steadying breath. ‘They adopted me when I was little. It’s never been a secret. I still don’t understand what makes you think I’m a voodoo freak. My biological mother lived in Plymouth, not Haiti.’
He nodded. ‘Sorry I said anything. But it makes me sick, this stuff in the papers about satanic rituals and pagan carryings-on. It seemed to me you were talking about that sort of rubbish.’
‘All I said was it felt like the start of a run of weird things. I wasn’t making any kind of supernatural predictions. I don’t know what I meant, really. I haven’t seen anything in the papers about satanic rituals. Anyway, it’s usually just a lot of stupid kids lighting black candles and having wanking competitions.’
Jeffrey recoiled as if she’d waved a live cobra under his nose. ‘Language!’ he gasped. ‘Watch your mouth, Miss.’
She sneered unpleasantly at him, still smarting at his unsuspected assumptions about her, based solely on the colour of her skin. Growing up in a white family, in a small town where almost everybody was white, she had seldom been made aware of anything unduly unusual about her appearance. Politically correct efforts to remind her of her ethnic identity had never even scratched the surface; so much else about her was remarkable that friends and teachers at school had put skin colour right at the end of the list.
‘I don’t think I’m the one with the dirty mouth,’ she said, before turning to trot down the field to the road.
* * *
‘There’s a strange woman standing by the field gate,’ Maggs told Drew next morning. He was in the office, playing with Stephanie while trying to do some calculations. Maggs had just arrived noisily on her bike.
‘Probably just another sightseer,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus here these days. She’ll just want to look at the spot that’s mentioned in the papers. Don’t people have lives of their own any more?’
‘You ought to be pleased. It’s good for business. They’ll remember us if one of their family dies.’
‘I doubt it. They’re just idle gawpers, as my mother used to say.’
‘Well this one looks as if she’s here for a reason. See for yourself.’ Maggs’s normally good temper had yet to reassert itself after the exchange with Jeffrey the previous day. Not just that, but too little to do, combined with some critical remarks from her mother about her weight and a spell of cold damp weather, all contributed to her gloom. Slowly, Drew got to his feet, passing Stephanie to Maggs, who took her automatically, as if scarcely aware of what she was doing, and then gave a put-upon little frown.
‘Where?’ he said, going to the open door. Before she could answer, he saw for himself. And immediately he knew exactly who she was.
‘Genevieve Slater,’ he said, walking towards his visitor as if magnetised. ‘My God.’
She had parked her car rather oddly on the other side of the narrow country lane, and stood next to it. They looked at each other, with the eight feet of tarmac between them.
‘You remember me, then?’ she said. ‘I thought I might have changed beyond recognition.’ She turned sideways, gazing up the slope towards the unofficial grave, now reverting to its former inconspicuous state. Drew saw that she was at least seven months pregnant, and that she was displaying her profile deliberately, to ensure that he didn’t miss the fact.
‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘It’s not so very long ago, after all.’
‘Almost exactly two years. May. It seems longer.’
He remained where he was, examining her closely. She looked older than he remembered – her skin more weathered, and crinkled around the eyes. But the black hair bore no trace of grey, and was as long and thick as before. The voice was the same creamy contralto that had appealed to him so strongly. And as she finally crossed over and stood beside him, he noted wryly that she was still a good two inches taller than him.
She eyed the cottage with a critical pursing of her lips. ‘Didn’t stay long in Bradbourne, did you?’ she remarked, with a tang of accusation.
‘As it happens, no, we didn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But we fully intended to when—’
‘Well, never mind that now. We stayed where we were in the end. Willard’s contract at the university was renewed after all, and everything settled down again. Not that I should forgive you for what you did,’ she added pettishly. ‘In fact, I’ve come to call in the favour you owe me.’
‘Step into the office,’ he invited, suddenly aware of how they might look, standing so close together at the side of the road. ‘And tell me about it.’
The office was crowded, with Stephanie, Maggs and the newcomer. ‘Would you take her for a little walk?’ Drew asked Maggs, nodding a
t his daughter. ‘It’s quite sunny out there now.’
His assistant frowned rebelliously and narrowed her eyes. More than once she’d reminded him that childcare was not part of her job, and she had no intention of letting it become so. A glance at the obvious unborn infant newly arrived in the room carried more than a dash of disgust. Drew could hear a snide remark coming and moved to intercept it.
‘Sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘We won’t be long.’
‘Don’t go on account of me,’ said the newcomer, summing up the situation. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
He looked at her, where she leant against his desk, all her weight thrown back on her hands, the bulge thrusting through the gaping coat. He felt rich with it: a wealth of female power on all sides.
‘I have to go,’ said Maggs. ‘But I don’t see why Stephanie can’t stay.’
Wordlessly, the woman thrust herself forward, taking a second to find her balance, and then held out her arms. Stephanie responded, twisting away from Maggs, almost leaping the gap between the two women. ‘Now everybody’s happy,’ said Drew comfortably. ‘Thanks, Maggs. I’ll see you in a bit.’
He gave his visitor a chair and produced a box of toys for his daughter.
Genevieve peered through the window at the back of the office, to the burial field. ‘I read about you in the local paper. You do alternative burials here, right?’ she said.
‘That’s right.’ He waited, examining in more detail her clear skin, long fingers, grey eyes, reminding himself of what had passed between them two years previously, when she and her husband had wanted the same house as Drew and Karen had decided to buy, and the protracted tussle had thrown them all together in a disorganised jumble of conflict and bad behaviour. Through a careless piece of diary-keeping on the part of the estate agent, the two couples had met on the doorstep of the house, and the truth had quickly become clear.
Drew and Genevieve had tried to be civilised about it, but Willard and Karen had been like pit bull terriers, neither the least bit inclined to give up their prize. Their spouses had been embarrassed, but over-ruled. Twice they met over coffee, alone, to try to resolve the argument. And although he’d never touched her, Drew had found her to be one of the easiest people to talk to that he’d ever known. Only later did he realise quite how freely he’d talked.
It wasn’t even an especially nice house, he thought now, with a rueful smile. However did we get into such a state over it?
But the state had persisted, made far worse by the vacillating old lady who owned the property. She liked both couples, promising each in turn that they could have it, and making the man at the estate agent tear his hair out with frustration. The impasse dragged on, until one dramatic afternoon, Drew had decided on some concerted action. Karen wanted the house with a passion she rarely showed, so Drew took a deep breath and told the biggest lie of his life. ‘My wife is in the early weeks of pregnancy,’ he told the old lady. ‘And I’m afraid she’ll lose the baby if this stress continues. She’s already had two miscarriages, you see.’ The next day, the estate agent phoned to say the house was quite definitely theirs.
All might have been well, except that Genevieve heard about what he’d done, and knew he’d lied. Knew because by then she knew quite a lot about the Slocombes, from Drew’s own lips.
Now, in his office, it was like being reminded of a bad dream. Genevieve had stormed at him, making extravagant accusations, threatening to betray him to the old lady, while he struggled to stay calm and point out to her that all his loyalties must lie with his wife. ‘After all,’ he’d said, ‘it isn’t as if there’s anything between you and me.’
‘Isn’t there?’ she’d challenged him, her hair disarrayed, her chest heaving.
‘Nothing,’ he’d insisted, reluctantly.
She’d deflated then, wounded and humiliated. ‘I thought you liked me,’ she mumbled childishly.
‘We wanted the same house – that’s all,’ he’d said perfidiously. ‘I’m sorry one of us had to lose.’
‘You cheated,’ she told him. ‘You don’t deserve to be happy in it. But I forgive you, Drew Slocombe. You’re too special to hold a grudge against.’
And Drew and Karen had been happy. Stephanie had soon made his lie come true and Drew had erased the memory of his dishonesty. But Genevieve’s sudden reappearance now was unsettling. Seeing her pregnant only increased his unease. It was unexpected, incongruous, and somehow inappropriate. She wasn’t the right sort of woman to have a baby. He’d had the strong impression, during those previous encounters, that she was at heart very much still a baby herself.
She was playing unself-consciously with Stephanie, blowing noisy raspberries against the child’s experimental open palm, grinning widely at the chuckles this evoked. Drew tried to reconcile this picture with the worried intensity she had shown over the house purchase. Although she’d claimed that it was her husband who really wanted and needed to move, he had wondered whether that was really true. He had also wondered whether he would have behaved as he did if she’d made her appeal more personal. Would he, in the end, have fought so hard to get Karen what she wanted if he had known for certain that Genevieve wanted it just as badly? There had been dreams in the following months where the choice had been presented and the decision far from clearcut. He found himself, in that other realm, doing almost anything that Genevieve Slater asked him to.
‘So – why are you here?’ he asked her abruptly. ‘Not just a visit for old times’ sake?’
She looked at him out of bright grey eyes and made an exaggerated grimace, wrinkling her nose and carving grooves around the edges of her lips. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I suppose we’d better get to the point.’ She put Stephanie down carefully, much to the child’s disappointment. ‘Can I sit down?’
Drew waved her to an upright chair at one end of his desk. She wore a bulky sheepskin coat that clearly wouldn’t fasten across her bulge and long grey suede boots. He sat in his own chair, having first persuaded Stephanie to settle in her corner with a set of stacking cups to work on.
‘There was a woman, buried here—’ Genevieve said.
Drew blinked stupidly before realising what she was talking about. ‘Oh! You mean – yes there was.’
‘I think – I think she was my mother.’
An awful sense of doom filled Drew’s whole body, heavy with the threat of trouble. He wanted very much to tell her to go away and leave him alone. But he couldn’t do that to Genevieve. He probably couldn’t do it to anybody, if it came to it. And besides, he was also intrigued, hooked helplessly by the promise of a story. ‘Ah,’ he said, weakly. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’ He was clutching at straws; she’d actually sounded quite uncomfortably sure.
‘Well, quite a few things fit. We haven’t seen her since last summer. She had a necklace just like the one in the paper. She was seventy-one, nearly as tall as me, and – well, it sounds daft, but she’s very much the sort of person who would get herself murdered.’
Drew wished he didn’t have to ask such an obvious question. Such a boringly crucial question. ‘I don’t expect I’m going to want to hear this – but why haven’t you gone to the police?’ he said.
She screwed her face up again, and wriggled her shoulders inside the big coat. ‘That’s a bit hard to explain – though I think you of all people might be able to understand. First—’ she held up a hand, palm outwards, as if to slow down an oncoming rush of words and thoughts. ‘First – it might not be Ma at all. If she’s still alive somewhere, she’s going to be furious with me for starting a police investigation. She doesn’t like the police.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh – well,’ Genevieve shrugged. ‘She’s always been a rebellious sort of person. Thinks everyone should be free to do as they like. Doesn’t approve of rules and regulations.’
‘But she hasn’t got anything to hide, has she?’ He tried to sound astute, covering all angles.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘She coul
d have, I suppose. She tends to mix with a lot of strange people.’
‘Hmm,’ Drew nodded doubtfully. ‘What else? What other reasons for avoiding the police?’
She closed her eyes for a moment, and then took a deep breath. ‘If it is my mother – she’s called Gwen Absolon, by the way – and if she was murdered, then I think it’s possible that my husband killed her.’ The words came out in a low mutter, forcing Drew to strain to catch them.
He remembered Willard Slater from two years ago: tall, much older than his wife, a disconcerting mixture of absent-minded intellect and cold ambition. Drew recalled the icy look in his eyes when Willard realised he might be thwarted in his desire to obtain the Bradbourne house. No, it was not so difficult to imagine Willard killing someone.
‘That’s a good reason,’ he agreed, the cloud of foreboding coming over him again with renewed force. ‘At least, from your point of view, assuming you like him enough to want to protect him.’
She laughed. ‘Good old Drew!’ she said. ‘Always straight to the point. You don’t even realise how unusual you are, do you?’
I could say the same of you, he thought, while prudently keeping quiet.
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ she added. ‘And, believe it or not, I am trying to work out what the right thing to do would be. That’s where I thought you might come in useful.’