Bricks and Mortality: Campbell & Carter 3

by Granger, Ann

  ‘I work shifts as a doctors’ receptionist in Cheltenham. That’s where I own a little house. I spend a lot of time driving out here to check either on Petra or on my mother. You aren’t thinking of pestering her as well, are you?’

  ‘Your mum? I wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Good.’

  They both finished their coffee in silence. Gervase pushed his empty cup away from him disdainfully.

  ‘Do you know, Kit?’ he began, but then broke off and snorted. ‘What a stupid expression that is. Of course you don’t know or I wouldn’t be telling you now. Last year I met my mother again for the first time since she walked out on me when I was twelve.’

  ‘You’ve seen Amanda?’ Kit gaped, made an effort to regain her poise, but found it beyond her. ‘In the flesh?’

  ‘Of course in the flesh, you noodle,’ said Gervase. ‘I didn’t mean she appeared, swathed in white muslin and floating in the air, while I was having a particularly bad trip.’

  ‘I meant,’ Kit said swiftly, recovering, ‘not on a social website or something like that.’

  ‘Do me a favour. I’m practically a recluse in Portugal. I go out of my way to avoid people. I hardly know my neighbours. Why on earth should I want to sit in front of a computer and inform the world about my innermost thoughts and what I had for breakfast? No, she turned up, in the flesh as you put it … well, not a lot of flesh admittedly. She was as thin as a rake.’

  ‘She always was,’ said Kit unkindly, and knowing it.

  ‘Miaow, Kit! Charity, if you please! Slim and elegant, I think she’d have called it. Anyway, she’s been living in California all these years. She was amazingly well preserved: gym-toned muscles, perfect suntan, not a hair out of place, chunky jewellery, painted finger and toenails. She’d remarried – twice. Husband number three had recently died. (Dad being husband number one!) He’d left her pretty well off. She’d decided to come to Europe on holiday, travel round a bit. She’d had her lawyers track me down and found out I was living in Portugal. So, when she got as far as Lisbon, she got in touch. We had a very civilised lunch in a fish restaurant on the coast. We didn’t rehash the past. She told me about her home in Sacramento and her European tour plans. I told her about my house and my horse. After lunch I drove her out to see my house. Afterwards, we walked on the beach at Guincho, though not for long. The sand got in her shoes and the sea breeze ruffled her coiffure. We were running out of conversation by then, anyway. I drove her back into Lisbon to her hotel and that was that. We haven’t made contact again, still no Christmas cards or phone calls. I think she was satisfied and has expunged me from her life – again. She’s probably back in California, busy hunting down husband number four.’

  ‘And how did you feel on seeing her again?’ asked Kit.

  Gervase thought about it. ‘I don’t think I felt – or feel now – anything much at all really. I was slightly puzzled, if anything. Now I’m relieved she’s lost interest again. I don’t think I could be bothered to keep in touch with her. Like you and your “ex”, we’d have nothing left to say to one another.’

  He looked at her with a sudden, wicked glint in his eyes. ‘Unlike you and me, Kit! We never did, and haven’t now, run out of things to say to one another. Generally we did it by way of squabbling or you upbraiding me on my ungentlemanly behaviour. You’re still able to do that.’

  ‘I won’t forgive you for going to see Petra,’ Kit told him. ‘But I’ve said my piece now. I hope you’ve taken it to heart and will stay away from her in future. The cops have been to see her too, by the way, one woman officer, plain-clothes and quite senior, an Inspector Campbell. I was there at the time.’

  ‘Campbell? I met her,’ said Gervase briefly. ‘Plain-clothes but not plain faced. Red hair, small, neat features, a bit fierce but very attractive, even so.’

  ‘Glad your distress at losing the family house didn’t prevent you appreciating her looks.’

  ‘I met her at the copshop, where I also met a grouchy sergeant and a dour bloke with the rank of superintendent. They don’t understand why I didn’t sell Key House while it was intact.’

  ‘They asked us about that,’ she told him. ‘Inspector Campbell was very interested in the house. I told her about the ghost.’

  ‘What ghost?’ asked Gervase, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘The one you told me about, the child who appeared at visitors’ bedsides and pulled off the blankets.’

  Gervase gave a shout of laughter. ‘That? I made that up to tease you when we were kids. I wanted to scare you. Some hope, you were always scare-proof. I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘You made it up?’ Kit burst out in renewed anger. ‘Honestly, you are the absolute limit, Gervase! I thought it was true.’

  ‘You believe in ghosts? You?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘No, I don’t believe in actual ghosts! But I believed that there was a real ghost story attached to Key House. Now I’ve told the police about it, and it’s not true. It was some dopey idea of yours. I should have guessed. If the cops ever find out they’ll think I’m potty.’

  ‘Why should they ever find out? They’re not interested in ghosts. They’re interested in murderers and arsonists.’ Casually, he added, ‘Who put a match to Key House, Kit?’

  ‘How on earth should I know?’ she railed at him.

  Gervase leaned back in his armchair and the leather covering creaked. He stretched out his legs. ‘The cops think I had something to do with it, you know.’

  ‘Why? Did you?’

  ‘I was in Portugal when it went up like a Roman candle, as they’ll find out when they check. They will check. I know how their nasty suspicious minds work.’

  There was a movement by the door into the lounge. The attentive waiter was back. Kit wondered if he’d been listening just outside. Gervase raised an arm to summon him.

  ‘I don’t know about you, Kit, but I do need a proper drink right now.’

  Chapter 11

  Both Carter and Jess returned to base to be informed that dental records and early DNA results confirmed the theory they had been working on. The dead man was indeed Matthew Pietrangelo. Now it was a matter of confirming the sad fact to the dead man’s partner and relatives.

  Sarah Gresham received the news stoically. ‘I knew it must be Matthew. If he were alive he would have contacted me by now.’ She had hesitated. ‘I feel as though he does want to contact me, but he can’t. That must sound foolish. It’s as if he’s not quite gone away. But he has, hasn’t he?’

  Later in the day Key House had a visitor. The light was poor, one of those winter days when it never really brightens before the night draws in again. Sarah felt it reflected her mood. She picked her way carefully over ashes, chunks of burned beam and little cairns made of roof tiles; and negotiated what had once been a doorway to enter the house itself. The atmosphere inside was stifling, as if the fire had sucked out all the oxygen. She couldn’t stay in here for long, but she would do what she had come to do. She reached the spot she sought, stooped and laid down the flowers she’d brought with her. It was even gloomier in here, so that the flowers seemed to sink into the ground. The odour of the fire, still impregnating everything, obliterated the scent of the blooms.

  For her, it was the stench of death. She wrapped her arms round herself, pressing her fingertips into the rough wool cloth of her winter coat, not because she was cold, but because she was comfortless. The bright petals on the blackened ground seemed a mockery, rather than a mark of affection and respect. She felt as though the fire had reached inside her and burned out everything that made her a normal sentient human being. Matt had been a dead husk on this floor: but she was a living husk. She went through the motions of day-to-day existence but felt nothing, only emptiness.

  Above her head something creaked and she looked up. A dusting of grit pattered down on her face and she coughed and moved aside. The small incident caused her to look around again and take stock of the extent of the damage. Even Matt wouldn’t have
hoped to restore the place from the present ruin. There was that creak again, slightly above her and to one side. She looked up again, more carefully this time and shielding her eyes with her hand. She could see right up through the charred joists that had supported the rooms above to the blackened remains of the rafters, sticking up like a carcass from which all the meat had been picked. It was the wood settling she’d heard. The whole place was a death trap. ‘Yes, death trap,’ she whispered to herself. It had lured Matt here and taken him from her. Even in its former undamaged state, Key House had been a danger because it had been a temptation.

  ‘Oh, Matt,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Matt …’

  ‘Watch out!’ It was man’s voice, near at hand, so unexpected it made her almost jump out of her skin. But before she could spin round to see who was there, hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her to one side. Sarah lost her balance and fell, bringing down the stranger with her. They finished sprawled together in the dirt a short distance from where she’d been standing before.

  It was just in time. One of the former fitted pine cupboards, charred but still intact, fell down and outward from the wall where it had been hanging insecurely, and crashed to the floor just where she’d been standing. It split apart, revealing the sharp points of screws sticking up out of the panels.

  Her rescuer released her and scrambled to his feet. He reached down a grimy hand to help her up. ‘Sorry,’ said a male voice above her head, ‘but there wasn’t time to ask you nicely to stand aside. I didn’t mean you to fall. I hope you’re not hurt.’

  Still without any idea who he was, or where he’d sprung from – she had been so sure she was alone here – she nevertheless grasped the proffered hand and was hauled to her feet.

  ‘You ought not to be in here, it’s really not safe at all,’ said the man.

  Sarah looked up at him and saw him for the first time and what she saw made her shriek in alarm. She started back, staring at him wild eyed, putting both hands to her mouth to stop further screams escaping.

  ‘Don’t be afraid!’ he begged. ‘Please, don’t be frightened of me. I was going to call out and let you know I was there but then I saw the old cupboard start to move.’

  He was aged mid to late thirties and wore jeans and a leather jacket, both now covered in ash and grime. His suntanned features were framed with an untidy mop of dark hair. He was so like Matt that for a terrifying moment she thought she saw a ghost. But it wasn’t Matt and far too solid for a ghost. She took her hands away from her mouth and whispered, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ the man said. His voice was educated and he spoke quietly, sounding worried. ‘My name is Gervase Crown. Please don’t be frightened.’ He lifted a hand to indicate their surroundings. ‘This used to be my house.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Crown,’ Sarah whispered. ‘Yes, they told me …’

  He nodded towards the bouquet. The falling cupboard had just missed it. ‘You’re connected with the man who died here.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled herself together. ‘I’m Sarah Gresham. Matt was my partner.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ he said and sounded sincere. ‘I was horrified when I heard that someone had died here. It was always an unlucky place.’

  Sarah heard herself say tightly, ‘Luck didn’t come into it. Someone killed him.’

  ‘I know.’

  Her eyes searched his face. ‘You – you do look very like him, you know. That’s why I screeched like that.’

  ‘I’ve been told that, too.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not surprised that you screamed when a stranger manhandled you to the ground. Plus the sight of me, if I do look like …’ He glanced at the flowers. ‘The killer may have meant to strike at me,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ she asked, bewildered.

  ‘It’s a long story and really, it wouldn’t help if I started to tell you about it.’

  Sarah said, ‘Matt wanted to buy this house, you know.’

  ‘I do know, that is to say, Reggie Foscott, the solicitor, did tell me there had been an enquiry about purchasing it. He’d told the enquirer that Key House wasn’t on the market.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘Yes, he did, but Matt didn’t want to give up. Key House was absolutely what he’d been looking for. He didn’t bring me to see it because he wanted to be able to tell me we could buy it before he did that. In case I fell in love with it, as he’d done, and I’d be very disappointed if we couldn’t buy. So he said it was better to wait until he’d made another approach. But he never got to make it.’

  Crown pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘You add to my guilt. I should have told Reggie long ago that any serious enquiry would be entertained. After all, I’d hung on to the place for years without living in it and I live abroad now, anyway. But I—’ He broke off and shrugged. ‘No excuse,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘But you don’t need an excuse!’ she told him. ‘Of course you didn’t want to part with it. It must have been a wonderful old place, full of history.’

  He looked alarmed, took one hand from his pocket and waved it at her to silence her. ‘No, no, you’ve got it wrong. I didn’t keep it because I loved it. I kept it because I hated it. That sounds crazy, I know. I can’t explain. It was my family home, but it wasn’t wonderful to me. I don’t have particularly good memories of being here, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to make the break. I’m afraid I specialise in making wrong decisions.’

  ‘Whatever your reasons,’ Sarah told him, ‘you didn’t want to sell and it was your decision. Anyway, it was only because it was empty and in need of attention that Matt thought we might be able to afford it. Perhaps if – if the fire hadn’t happened, if Matt had been able to go back and talk to Foscott again … if Foscott had got in touch with you again and you’d changed your mind … But it’s all “if”, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed soberly. ‘It is all “if”, as you say. If I hadn’t done a number of stupid things in my life, and one in particular, this house wouldn’t have been standing empty. It’s a shame we can’t go back and rewrite everything.’ The silence lengthened until he said, ‘I really think we ought to go outside before something else drops on our heads.’

  ‘I’m trespassing,’ Sarah said to him, as they picked their way over the rubble to the open air. ‘Perhaps you’re offended.’

  ‘You can spend as much time here as you like, as far as I’m concerned. But the condition is rickety now, as was demonstrated.’ He indicated the interior, and the fallen cupboard, behind them. ‘The cops don’t like people walking about in here because of it.’

  ‘I realised it was risky.’ Sarah didn’t add that she now felt she had so little to lose, without Matt and their future together, that a lump of falling masonry would seem to offer nothing more than release. ‘But I couldn’t keep away,’ she mumbled.

  He studied her averted face briefly and then looked away himself, back at the house. ‘No more can I, and I should, if anyone should. Only about an hour ago, I was talking to someone who knew me in the old days, when I lived here. She wishes I hadn’t come back. As soon as she left, I got in the car and drove here. Crazy, really.’

  Sarah looked at him curiously and opened her mouth to speak, but their conversation was interrupted.

  Another voice, harsher and accusing, shattered the air.

  ‘So, there you are! I heard you’d turned up like a bad penny – the same bad penny you always were!’

  Gervase Crown spun round and Sarah moved to be able to see the newcomer more clearly. She saw a short, sturdy elderly woman with spectacles, wearing a strange bright yellow outfit of waterproof trousers and jacket.

  Crown obviously recognised her. ‘Well, well, Muriel, as I live and breathe! You’re still living and breathing, obviously, and not a bit changed! Still your old jolly self, I see.’

  ‘Don’t you “well, Muriel” me!’ snapped the woman.
‘And spare me your twisted sense of humour. Who is that?’ she pointed at Sarah.

  ‘This is Miss Sarah Gresham, Muriel. Tragically, Sarah’s partner lost his life here.’

  ‘Oh,’ Muriel looked discomfited. She dropped her stare and, addressing Sarah, said in a gruff voice, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah said.

  ‘And this,’ Gervase completed the introductions, indicating the yellow-clad woman for Sarah’s benefit, ‘is Muriel Pickering, a native of this parish. I dare say she’s another one who wishes I hadn’t returned.’

  ‘Yes, I am a native of this part of the world and proud of it!’ shouted Muriel at him. ‘My family has lived here over one hundred and fifty years!’ She turned to Sarah again. ‘Time was,’ she announced, ‘when my family owned chunks of the land around here. Now we don’t own any but my house and the garden.’

  She nodded towards Gervase. ‘His family turned up when his father came along and bought Key House, this house. They had no links with the area and he still doesn’t.’

  ‘I hesitate to correct you, Muriel,’ Gervase told her quite mildly, ‘but before he bought Key House, my father grew up and lived not twenty miles away. We were and are a Gloucestershire family.’

  ‘Twenty miles away isn’t here!’ yelled Muriel. As if in reply to the sound of her voice, something else inside the house clattered to the ground.

  Sarah was beginning to look alarmed again, and Gervase hastened to reassure her, ‘Don’t worry about Muriel. She can’t help it. Her parents forgot to invite the wicked fairy to her christening, so it turned up and cursed her. Be glad that you and your partner didn’t buy Key House and move in. Muriel would have been your nearest neighbour, and you will have gathered she doesn’t like newcomers.’

  ‘I don’t dislike people,’ said Muriel calmly. ‘I just have no time for you. I don’t know what you do with yourself over there in Portugal. I can’t imagine it’s anything worthwhile. And you’re perfectly right in saying I regret your decision to return. However, in the circumstances, I suppose you had to.’