Malice in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  He blundered out into the corridor, hoping to avoid meeting anybody. A nurse somewhere was watching the monitors on a screen; somebody would come and replace the drips and catheters once in a while. Over the entire department there was an air of failure, even guilt that they had somehow let a young mother slip through their fingers. There was no question of turning anything off, nothing so theatrical as that. No moment of semi-murder of the semi-animate thing that had been Karen Slocombe. Nor could they withhold the fluids from the drips without a solemn conference involving everyone concerned. To starve and dehydrate even the shell of a person risked a final cruelty that everybody flinched from, although it happened often enough. Maggs would never permit it. The prospect of her protests was unthinkable. Drew himself could never live with the guilt, however irrational it might be. Guilt was an old friend, it was true, but he had wrestled with it since Karen’s decline and almost persuaded himself that he could in no way be blamed. He had followed his own strict ethics almost without deviation, assisted now and then by Maggs. Now, search as he might, he could find nothing with which to reproach himself.

  As far as Drew was concerned, the precise timing and means of Karen’s death had lost much of their relevance. He had tipped over from hope to acceptance, without meaning or wanting to. It had simply happened, as he sat there, and he had no doubt that it was a permanent state.

  He walked down the corridor, his eyes on his shoes and the shiny floor. The place was quiet, the patients mostly settled for the night. When he got home the children would be asleep, and his mother-in-law would be in her customary nest on the sofa, the television murmuring companionably. Her loss was as acute as his, in its way, even though she had never been particularly attentive to Karen since she had married Drew. He could see guilt clear in her eyes, and a desperate regret that she had let the relationship drift. Her passionate overprotectiveness of the children was her attempt at atonement for her neglect. He had almost given up trying to reassure her, to persuade her that Karen had been fully in agreement with the way it had happened. She had promised to remain at North Staverton for the entire school holiday, making it possible for Drew and Maggs to continue with their business, at least to some extent. But now, he vowed to himself, he wouldn’t ask her to do it any more. The collective martyrdom could cease – Den with his prolonged lunch breaks, Maggs with her round-the-clock attention, the children with their limbo status arousing the natural hostility of their schoolfellows. It had all gone on for too long.

  Tomorrow he was going to face the rest of his life. He was still a father and an undertaker, if no longer a husband.

  Thea finally went to bed at eleven, feeling utterly drained by worry and puzzlement. Urgent questions swarmed in her mind, concerning murder and violence and the probable demise of poor Karen Slocombe. There was nothing joyful or consoling to hold on to; only a gnawing sense of obligation to an uncomfortable number of people. Gudrun, Victor, Jessica, Gladwin and Yvonne all had expectations of her. Not to mention Drew, who had so eagerly latched onto the Snowshill murder.

  Victor seemed to be the most urgent. It had definitely sounded as if the man had been dealt a blow, a guess that seemed to be confirmed by the woman who had screamed. Perhaps the woman had attacked him, giving a war cry as she did so, for good measure? The few garbled hints that Thea had gleaned about him suggested the existence of a number of women in his life. Yvonne had left her car close to the place where he lived, and then made her way to St Pancras to catch the train to France. Hazily, Thea supposed that you had to check in at least half an hour before departure, which meant she must have been at the station at the time of the phone call from Victor. Her obvious impatient bewilderment at Thea’s question about the scream reinforced the impression that she neither knew nor cared what might have befallen her ex-husband.

  She tried to visualise his dwelling, from the description Yvonne had given. A small scruffy flat in a house that had been converted to multiple occupancy was how it had sounded. Was it conceivable that a man in his fifties or more with some sort of respectable profession or business would live like that? Mark, his son, had tried to explain it, with scant success. Had Victor managed to set something up as a deliberate deception for his wife, a way of persuading her that he was living in poverty, so she would abandon all claim to money from him to pay for Belinda’s wedding? Stranger things had certainly happened, but it sounded very unconvincing as Thea tried it out; this, however, didn’t stop her from further flights of fancy. Did the other flats contain drug addicts and mentally ill people? Had one of them burst into Victor’s room at random and attacked him?

  She finally fell asleep thinking, inevitably, about Gudrun and her little boy. Perhaps she had, after all, killed him, as everybody still seemed to think. Had she belatedly understood that she must pay a price for what she had done when she ‘stole’ him, and paid it massively, in a grand and desperate gesture?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The mobile rang as Thea was having breakfast on Tuesday morning. It was Gladwin with a breathless update on the Crouch End mystery. ‘We can’t find anybody named Victor Parker living in N6 or N8,’ she reported. ‘We think he’s the same Victor William Parker who runs a company named Handyman Holdings, registered to an address in Kensington, and we’ll ask the Met to send somebody over there tomorrow, to enquire after his health. Okay? Go for a walk and don’t think about it any more.’

  ‘Yvonne called me from St Pancras last night,’ Thea remembered to say. ‘She was about to get on the Eurostar, apparently, going to see her sister.’

  ‘Right.’ Gladwin’s attention was partial. ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was just checking in, I suppose. She didn’t seem to have heard about Stevie, or to care very much when I told her.’

  ‘Er … Thea … be careful what you say to people, all right? I mean, I’ve been telling you things I really shouldn’t, if I’m to stick to the rules. You know why – you’ve been more than helpful in the past and I regard you as an unofficial ally. But don’t stir up the mud if you can help it. It’s always complicated working out who knows what and when, but it can be very useful to catch them out in contradictions over that sort of thing. If the Parker woman didn’t know, then where has she been for two days? It’s taken top billing on most of the national news bulletins since yesterday. Not to mention the papers.’

  ‘She’s hopelessly vague. I think she left her car near Victor’s place on Sunday, and went back to the place she stayed in on Saturday night. Then she went off to France without telling him, and he called me, and then something happened.’ In spite of herself, her voice rose, with the frustration of not being able to establish just what had happened to the man. ‘But that’s still a fearful muddle, isn’t it? The car part seems odd, for a start.’

  ‘It does, and we’ll do what we can to check it all out. But I can’t get any sense that this connects to Stevie Horsfall. The only thing is the fact he was left outside Hyacinth House, and you know how that goes. A house-sitter’s in charge, who knows nothing about the people and their history. In effect, the place is empty, and therefore a good spot to dump a body. Even if they know who you are and how you’ve caught people out before, they’re going to think this time you won’t have a clue.’

  ‘And they’d be right.’

  ‘Don’t despair. We’ve got about a thousand people working on this – all stops are pulled out when the victim’s a child. We’ll get our killer, probably sooner rather than later.’

  Thea had little choice but to let it go at that.

  Drew woke to Tuesday with a sense of foreboding. He and Maggs had a funeral to conduct that afternoon. Mr Anderson was to be buried next to his sister – or as close as they could get him. The bodies would in fact spend eternity lying head-to-head. ‘That’s rather nice,’ said Angela, daughter of the sister, niece of Mr Anderson. ‘They always did talk a lot. She talked far more to Uncle Tim than she ever did to my dad.’ Dad was apparently living somewhere in Thailand, his every ne
ed being served by a child bride. Angela was more than eager to tell Drew the disgusting details, with much bitterness. ‘She’s about half my age,’ she spat. Drew tried his best not to imagine it. Once in a while he found himself wishing people were not quite so free with their family secrets when talking to him.

  But it wasn’t the funeral that produced his unease. It was nothing to do with Peaceful Repose. The morning would not be busy. Everything was ready for the burial – the grave dug, the coffin closed. Drew was to conduct the brief ceremony at half past four, giving a short eulogy that Angela had written for him. If it rained, as seemed highly likely, they would stand there getting wet for perhaps ten minutes. Ten or twelve people were expected. ‘We’re all terribly sad,’ admitted Angela. ‘The world is never going to be the same without him.’

  This was what Drew liked to hear. Sometimes he found traditional British stoicism rather irritating.

  Maggs would expect him to go to the hospital. She would get on with the business in his absence, answering the phone, making promises with some circumspection, while at the same time doing her best to avoid losing custom. She was yet to show any sign of exhaustion or impatience. Although he hadn’t asked her, he felt sure she would stoutly guarantee to carry on like this for years, if that’s what it took to get Karen back. The thought depressed him almost more than any of his other gloomy musings.

  The office and his house depressed him. His children depressed him. The weather was grey and chilly. There was nothing to look forward to. He had nowhere to go and nobody to listen to him.

  Except one.

  His fingers activated the little buttons of their own accord, his will entirely disengaged from the procedure.

  She asked no questions whatsoever, which in itself was a warm relief beyond all logic. Except she did say, after a minute or two of chat about nothing much, ‘Do you know Crouch End at all?’

  ‘Um … London. North-ish. On a hill. Vaguely upmarket.’

  ‘I’m going there today and thought you might fancy coming with me. A sort of therapy, if you like.’

  ‘I’ve got a funeral.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘It’s not until four-thirty this afternoon. It’s nine now. How long would your expedition take?’

  ‘If we got a train and then a taxi, probably four hours or so. Maybe a bit more.’

  ‘I can’t afford taxis.’

  ‘Neither can I. But what the hell.’

  ‘Is this dangerous and illegal?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Thank God. I can get to Paddington by about ten-thirty, I expect.’

  ‘So can I. There’s a train that goes from Moreton quite soon. See you under the clock.’

  ‘Is there a clock?’

  ‘Bound to be. Yes – a big one on platform one. Or there was. A lovely thing. Huge.’

  ‘Thank you, Thea. I think you might just have saved me from going mad. Although I guess most people would say that doing this with you is a clear sign of insanity.’

  ‘I know. It’s absolutely bonkers. We’re not going to find anything, you know. Not so much as a wild goose.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘See you, then.’

  He drove to his nearest main-line station, which took fifteen minutes. The ticket was considerably cheaper than he’d anticipated – apparently last-minute journeys were back in favour, for some reason. Maybe the train people were eager to fill a lot of empty seats. He sat next to the window, with a space beside him, thinking that he would for ever associate Thea Osborne with trains and stations, after their Broad Campden adventure. He permitted himself to forget his lost wife, his motherless children, and rerun the crazy conversation he had just enjoyed with Thea, savouring the easy friendship, the natural way they understood each other. There was nothing at all wrong with it. Maggs could not be allowed to sully it with her blundering assumptions. He and Thea were mature adults with considerable life experience. They knew exactly what they were doing, and where the boundaries lay.

  He was there first, the clock easily located. Standing beneath it was difficult, though, with people swarming past on their way to the taxi rank or a train or the Ladies. He resisted the urge to call Thea on her mobile, preferring the old-fashioned suspense of waiting for her to appear. He scanned the faces as they turned onto the wide platform, all of them intent on their destination, pulling wheeled suitcases or humping heavy rucksacks. Small children escaped their parents’ grasp and chased after pigeons. One or two dogs trotted confidently on their leads, proclaiming their relaxed familiarity with this place of noise and bustle and endless pairs of legs, smelling of an intoxicating variety of experience and encounter. Dogs! Would Thea bring her spaniel? Could she leave it behind, not knowing for sure how long she’d be gone? Surely she wouldn’t bring it. But abandoning it was the equivalent of his irresponsible desertion of his post, without any certainty of being back in time for Mr Anderson’s funeral. Whatever happened, they both had to retrace their steps within an hour or two.

  It was ten-forty when he saw her, minus the dog. She was so small – he had forgotten how short and slender she was. Her hair had grown an inch or so since he had last seen her in Cranham. She was lovely. Anybody would think so. It was a plain objective fact.

  Their eyes met and both smiled broadly, conspiratorially, amused by the adventure.

  ‘Taxis are just through here,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, then. I’ll explain as we go.’

  ‘What have you done with Hepzie?’

  ‘Shut her in and told her to hope for the best. I’m a cruel and heartless mother.’

  ‘And I’m a feckless father.’

  ‘Actually, I asked Janice, the woman across the road, to let her out if I’m not back by four.’ She proceeded to give an account of the hurried visit to the secluded house, where Janice had come to the door looking strained and preoccupied. She had not been unduly eager to take any responsibility for Thea’s dog.

  ‘Was that a good idea – to tell her you were away for the day?’ Drew asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘If she killed the boy, she might have sinister intentions. Is Hepzie safe with her?’

  ‘Stop it. I’ll be back before tea, anyway, and no harm done, I’m sure. Do you think she killed the boy?’ she added belatedly.

  ‘I don’t know. I was thinking about her and her daughter, on the train. There’s a parallel, isn’t there, with the mother of the boy who was killed? I mean – two sets of single mothers, and no sign of a father in either case.’

  ‘It’s more or less the norm, Drew. Not a bit unusual, anyway.’

  ‘I know. Even so … Gosh, do you really think we’ll get back in time? If I miss the funeral, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  ‘Of course we will. Stop panicking. We’ve got ages.’

  He failed in his attempt to do as instructed. ‘No, but if I miss the funeral, I may as well never go back. My life will be over, its purpose lost for all time.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’d have thought that was quite far down your list of priorities just now.’

  ‘Displacement,’ he muttered. ‘Isn’t that what they call it? And it’s very cruel of you to remind me.’

  ‘I know.’ She patted his hand. ‘Sorry. But I did hear cries and screams last night, and this is important as well. Don’t think about what’s back at home.’

  Eight or ten people waited in front of them for taxis. It seemed like a lot, but the cars rolled in steadily, and within four or five minutes they were on the back seat of a cab, heading north.

  ‘Cries and screams?’ he repeated, wide-eyed. ‘Are you going to explain?’

  ‘Victor Parker, ex-husband of the woman I’m house-sitting for, phoned me last night. In the middle of the call, he was suddenly attacked by somebody. Then, a minute later, a woman screamed. I think she was in another room, and a third person came in and bashed him or something. Gladwin says they can’t find the address because there’s nothing in Crouch
End registered in his name.’

  ‘Wow. What does this have to do with the murder in Snowshill?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever, probably, although it seems more and more unlikely that there’s no connection, every time I think it through. I hoped you might have some ideas.’

  ‘I might if I get a chance to get to grips with it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘How well do you know London?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not well at all. I’ve been to Madame Tussauds and Hyde Park and Leicester Square. We came a few times when Jess was little and rode about on buses and went to Hamleys. It scares me a bit.’

  ‘I’ve been on the London Eye,’ he boasted. ‘In 2003. It wasn’t very good weather, so we couldn’t see much. How far is it to Crouch End?’

  ‘Not far,’ she said evasively. ‘We need to look for Vonny’s car, you see,’ she elaborated. ‘She left it in Victor’s street, so if we find it, we’ll know more or less where his house is.’

  ‘Do you know its number? The car, I mean.’

  She nodded. ‘It took me half an hour early this morning to find it, but I got there eventually. I thought I’d have to break into her bureau, but in the end I found the key to it. All the car stuff was in a little cubbyhole.’

  ‘So we walk the streets until we find it?’

  Thea produced an A–Z map of London. ‘It’s not a very big area. If we start in the bottom right-hand corner and do a street each at a time, we should manage it fairly quickly.’

  ‘Then what?’