by Granger, Ann
Kit walked slowly across to stand beside her and waited until Petra set down her brush and swivelled round to face her. She was wearing one of her painting smocks. It wasn’t a flattering garment but Kit thought sadly that Petra was still a lovely woman. Lovely, yes, that was the word. Her dark blond hair was thick, long and held in place by an Alice band. Her skin was unblemished and relatively unlined. Considering the pain she had known, the several operations, and the grinding discipline of the physiotherapy designed to force limited response back into her muscles, Kit thought that amazing. Only her sister’s eyes held the legacy of suffering. But she smiled now in welcome.
‘I wasn’t expecting you this morning.’
‘Not a good time to disturb you?’ Kit asked.
‘Absolutely the right time. I need coffee in large quantities.’ Petra set the wheelchair in motion and sped off towards the barn door, Kit hastening behind.
The cottage towards which they were heading had not started life as a dwelling for humans but for horses. As such it had large door openings. This made it ideal to be converted for her sister’s use as a dwelling, giving her the independence she so much valued. The traditional cottages locally all had tiny doorways and windows and so many preservation orders attached to them that permission to alter them would never have been obtained.
Indoors, Petra’s home was open-plan in design, kitchen and living area united in one large, sparsely furnished whole. Only the bedroom and bathroom were separated. All had been designed with Petra’s needs in mind. ‘I’m lucky,’ she would often say, and she meant it.
It had not been easy, Kit remembered, to persuade their mother that Petra could live independently. Even though Petra had proved it, Mary Stapleton still fretted constantly. It was understandable up to a point. Following the accident, there had been a terrible period of doubt that Petra would even be able to do much for herself at all. But the doctors who expressed the doubt didn’t know Petra. She had never given up and use of her upper body had returned; but not that of her legs to any significant degree. When out of her wheelchair, she could only propel herself along using the two crutches propped just inside the front door. Kit watched her sister struggle out of the chair. She handed her the crutches and Petra grunted thanks. The family knew that one had to be very careful about offering physical help in any way. ‘If I need it, I’ll ask!’ Petra would say tartly.
Nevertheless, Kit said firmly now, ‘You’ve been slaving away painting that nag, I’ll make the coffee.’
‘I can do it,’ Petra responded, as she’d known she would.
‘Of course you can. I recognise that! I’m not saying you can’t. But let me do it, can’t you? I want to.’
‘Oh, all right,’ the words sounded ungracious but Petra was grinning. They had this conversation every time Kit dropped by.
They settled themselves by a window where a semicircular settle had been built at the right height for Petra to slide on to. Kit sat at the other end and looked down at a sheaf of snapshots scattered on the seat between them.
She picked up the topmost one. ‘Yikes! What an ugly pooch. Don’t tell me the owner wants you to paint it!’
‘Yes, I’m very happy to say, she does.’
‘Have you seen the mutt in the flesh?’
‘Yep! She brought him to meet me. I told her, quite truthfully, that he has lots of character. Animals are like people. Beauty and personality don’t always go together. Nice when they do, of course. I admit Hamlet got a bit short-changed on the looks. But he does have the personality.’
‘I believe you,’ said Kit, returning Hamlet’s photo to the pile.
‘So, what’s new?’ asked Petra, cupping her hands round the coffee mug. She’d decorated the mugs so that each one in the set of six showed a different breed of cat. Petra had the Siamese, because she always did, and Kit had the blue-grey Persian, because that was hers.
Habit, thought Kit, watching her sister. Habit keeps us going. Little things like always having the same mug. Silly, but they matter. But it did underline how fragile our personal world can be. Petra had built one for herself in which she could declare herself happy. Kit had news for her sister that might shatter her confidence. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. She and her mother had had a long conversation, well, argument, about it. There was no question that it would be Kit’s job to tell her sibling. But that hadn’t avoided heated debate.
‘Or have you just dropped by?’ prompted Petra, when her visitor remaining silent.
‘No, it’s not a casual call. I came to tell you something.’
‘Aha! Good news or bad?’ Petra’s grin faded. ‘Mother’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ Kit reassured her. ‘Nagging away at me as always. But as long as she’s got the energy to do that, I know she’s all right. I don’t know quite how to categorise the news, good or bad. Well, it’s not good.’
Petra gave a theatrical groan. ‘Just tell me, can’t you? I can’t stand the suspense.’
‘OK, Key House caught fire. It’s pretty well burned down. The walls are standing, just, but the roof’s gone, fallen in, and all the floors and inside fittings. I thought you might not yet know, if you hadn’t seen anyone.’
‘Oh, that’s awful … a shock,’ said Petra, what little colour remaining in her face leaching away to leave her alabaster-pale. ‘I didn’t know. When did this happen?’ She added almost, but not quite, at once, ‘Anyone in it when it caught fire?’
‘The fire was the night before last. Yes, someone was in it; but no, it wasn’t Gervase.’
Petra’s fingertips, gripping the mug, were white but the pressure on the fingernails had turned them mauve. ‘I thought it was empty of furniture. Surely no one was staying there. Is whoever it was safe, get out all right? How did the fire start?’
‘I don’t think the police know yet or if they do, they haven’t made that public. I’m afraid the person didn’t get out safely. They found a body in the ruins. They don’t know who it is yet. But they do know it’s not Gervase. Honestly, Petra, it isn’t his body.’
She had known this would be the most difficult bit of the news she’d come to impart. It had been her own first thought, her mother’s first thought and, naturally, Petra’s first thought as well. The body might have been that of Gervase Crown.
‘Is he in Portugal?’ Petra’s voice was studiously bland.
‘Yes, fooling around wasting his time as always. But I understand he’ll be coming back to attend to things. Reggie Foscott phoned Ma to tell her, warn her I suppose, that she might find herself bumping into Gervase in the street or somewhere. I hope not. She couldn’t handle it. She hates his guts. She’d mow him down with her shopping trolley. So do I loathe the useless blighter.’ Kit paused and added sadly, ‘But I know you don’t. For the life of me, I don’t understand why not.’
‘We were both young and stupid and drunk,’ said Petra evenly. ‘He shouldn’t have been driving. I shouldn’t have got in the car with him. Does Reggie think he’ll be staying long?’
‘As long as it takes, I suppose. The house is in ruins and some decision will have to be made about its future – and the police have started a murder hunt.’
The Siamese cat mug tilted and coffee splashed down into Petra’s lap. She gave a squeal and swore.
‘Oh, hell, my fault, sorry!’ Kit jumped up and went to fetch a cloth. ‘Were you scalded?’
‘No, only startled. What murder?’
‘I rehearsed all this to myself, you know,’ Kit said wretchedly, ‘just how I was going to tell you. Then I mess it up! I was putting off telling you how it was murder or trying to lead up to it in a gentle fashion. But it’s not gentle news, is it? So I might just as well tell you it all. I told you that when they’d put the fire out they found a body in the ruins of the house; but the really horrid thing, more horrid than someone dying there, is that whoever it is didn’t die in the fire accidentally. The cops have decided that guy was murdered. They believe the
fire was started deliberately to cover up the evidence.’
‘And Gervase is definitely in Portugal?’ Petra’s whole body seemed frozen.
‘Yes! I told you, Reggie has been in touch with him. Gervase is on his way back, may have arrived by now for all I know. He’s not the body in the ruins.’ Kit leaned forward to emphasise her words, but something more than alarm in her sister’s face made her ask, ‘Or did you think Gervase might have put him there, whoever the victim is?’
That served to unfreeze her sister’s attitude. ‘No! Of course not! How could you ask that? Why should Gervase murder anyone? He’d be pretty daft to do it in his own house, if he did. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t!’ Petra’s face had reddened. Energy suddenly surged through from some hidden source. She waved her hands. ‘And if he’s in Portugal, just as you keep saying, he couldn’t be here doing such an awful thing. Honestly, Kit, I know how you feel but even you can’t believe Gervase could be a deliberate murderer?’
‘It’s been years since you last saw him, Petra, since any of us saw him. You don’t know what he might or might not do. You only remember the numbskull show-off that he was. If he’s matured to resemble his father in character, he’ll be pretty ruthless now. But yes, he was in Portugal at the time of the fire and no one is accusing him of anything.’ She tried to smile but it didn’t work. ‘I don’t know why I said that. I’m shocked, I suppose.’
‘Of course you are. Mother must be. I am. Reggie and Serena, too. We all are.’ Petra looked down at her folded hands.
There was a pause and Kit added ruefully, ‘I’m still blaming him for smashing you both up in that car, but that’s back then. I can’t accuse him of anything more recent.’
There was a long silence. Petra stared out of the window towards the barn. ‘I must get back to work, Kit. Sorry to hurry you along. But I have got a delivery date for the picture.’
Kit carried both mugs to the sink where she rinsed them under the tap. Turning, she saw that Petra still sat as she’d left her, staring at the view from the window.
‘Petra, if the louse should turn up here …’
‘He won’t,’ Petra said curtly. ‘Why should he?’
‘He shouldn’t, precisely. No decent man would do that. But Gervase lacks basic decency. He was always thick enough and conceited enough.’
Petra burst into laughter and turned her head towards her sister. ‘If he comes, I’ll ring you and you can rush over here and beat him up.’
‘Just you remember, if he does appear, get on the phone straight away. I’ll come immediately. Promise?’ Kit’s voice was sober.
‘Sure, yes, I’ll tell you at once. But Kit, he won’t. Tell Mother, if that’s what she’s worrying about, that this is the last place Gervase Crown is going to turn up.’
Chapter 5
‘I want to speak to someone. I need to speak to someone now. It’s urgent!’
The voice was clear, young and well educated. The desk constable for the day, Abby Lang, looked up from the register of lost and found. She’d been trying to collate the two and decide whether the worn engagement-type ring handed in by a conscientious citizen, as found on the pavement outside the Oxfam shop, was the same one as an engagement ring reported lost by an agitated elderly woman three days before. The problem was that the elderly woman had declared her ring to have four diamonds set in platinum and the ring handed in had three stones. Normally that would mean it wasn’t. But the owner of the lost ring had been in a ‘real old sweat about it’, so the desk officer of the day had remarked, adding, ‘She was bit vague, too. You know, dithery, not sure of the time of day if you ask me!’
Abby closed the book and took measure of the young female visitor who stood before her, hands jammed into the pockets of a leather, or leather-look, full-length coat. Dealing with lost and found had made Abby cautious about descriptions.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked automatically.
The newcomer was about twenty-six or -seven, at Abby’s estimation, slim, short, shiny black hair cut short with a fringe from beneath which glared striking green eyes. Her whole manner bristled. Not aggressive in the drunk-on-Saturday-night way: more ‘I pay my taxes and I expect something for it!’
‘Yes, I certainly hope so. I told you, it’s urgent!’ Perhaps it was agitation, not aggression. People sometimes sounded belligerent when they were only frightened.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ Abby asked. She was well aware the phrase was well worn, but it served the purpose. Not everyone who came in here declaring they had an insoluble problem that the police must solve at once turned out to have nothing but a lost cat to report.
‘I want to report a missing person.’ The words came out in a rush.
Abby drew a notepad towards her. Not a lost pet, then. But sometimes people are ‘lost’ because they choose to be. ‘Can I have your name and a contact phone number?’
‘Sarah Gresham, look, here’s my business card.’ She drew a small white card from one pocket of the leather (or leather-look) coat, and handed it over, Abby read it. Ms Gresham’s card only gave her name, the name of a local bank and a business contact number, but she was pointing at the card and making an irritable circular motion with a finger at the same time. Abby, interpreting the gesture, turned the card over. On the other side an address had been written by hand. ‘Chestnut Lodge,’ Abby read aloud. ‘What sort of building is that?’
‘It’s an rambling old Edwardian house and you’ll see I’ve written “basement flat”,’ Sarah said impatiently. ‘Look, don’t you want to know about the missing person?’
‘How long has the person been missing?’ asked the unruffled Abby. If it turned out to be a mere twenty-four hours it would be far too early to panic, and this girl was definitely panicking under that demanding exterior.
‘Three days. That is, two nights and this is the third day.’
‘I see.’ That sounded much more serious. ‘What is the name of the missing person and can I also ask, what is the relationship?’
‘His name is Matthew Pietrangelo …’ The speaker paused and then carefully spelled the name, watching as Abby wrote it down. ‘He’s my boyfriend – my partner.’
Oh dear, thought Abby. Has he done a bunk, I wonder? Left her in the lurch? Didn’t have the courage to break it off? Time to be tactful. On the other hand, they’d only just been told to pass all reports of missing male adults straight up to CID.
‘Does Mr Pietrangelo live at the same address? Can you tell me his age?’
‘He’s thirty. Yes, he lives there. We’ve been together two years. He’s never done anything like this before. I’ve phoned his sister and she hasn’t heard from him. I didn’t want to worry his mother, not yet, anyway, and his sister – her name is Georgia Evans – agrees. But she did ring her mother and ask in a roundabout way if she’d heard from Matt lately and she – Mrs Pietrangelo – hasn’t. Matt’s mother is beginning to wonder why; because Matt rings her regularly, once a week, and he’s missed his usual day.’
‘Where do these ladies live?’ asked Abby practically. ‘Both in the UK?’
‘For crying out loud, of course they do! They both live in London, or the London area. Georgia lives in Camden and Mrs Pietrangelo lives in Harrow. I know it’s an Italian name, but that’s because Matt’s grandfather came to Britain in 1950 and opened a café near King’s Cross, of all places.’
Abby realised that the speaker was very near to tears. ‘Just a moment,’ she said.
She picked up the internal phone. ‘Sergeant Morton, please. Oh, it’s Abby Lang down at the front desk, Sarge. Someone has come in to report a missing male, aged thirty. I saw the internal memo and I thought you’d— Yes, right away.’
‘Come into one of the interview rooms,’ she said more kindly to Sarah Gresham. ‘I’ll organise a cup of tea and someone will come down and talk to you in a few minutes.’
It wasn’t Morton, but Jess Campbell who came downstairs to interview the visitor. Now that Sarah Gresham ha
d a sympathetic ear to pour her troubles into, her manner relaxed slightly. But she remained a frightened woman.
‘It not like Matt just to drop out of sight like this. Where’s he living? He hasn’t even got a change of clothes. I checked all that out. Everything is at home where it should be, right down to his toothbrush and electric razor. His collection of DVDs, his sports gear, all of it … I know you’re going to suggest Matt has left me. I don’t believe he has. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have vanished off into the blue and left everything behind, not even a change of socks with him.’ Sarah began to sound combative again.
‘What does he do for a living?’ Jess asked. ‘If he’s not turned up for work …’
‘He’s a freelance website designer and works from home, our home. But his car’s gone. It’s the one thing he has taken.’
‘Had he had been behaving normally recently? Feeling OK? Depressed about anything? Money worries?’
Sarah’s face was white. ‘He hasn’t topped himself somewhere. He wouldn’t do that to me. Anyway, he wasn’t depressed. Work has been slow recently, from his point of view, perhaps. But he’s confident another job will come along. If you’re self-employed it’s like that. I work for Briskett’s bank and so there is regular money coming in. Matt’s work is well paid. It’s just not a monthly salary like mine.’