I edged her away from the bedside. ‘I’m just wondering, Elaine, if we should be talking to him, rather than about him. The does-he-take-sugar syndrome. Will can’t reply, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear.’
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! It’s my fault, all this, Jane. This is for your ears only, mind. I got his text as he headed to Churcham, and passed it on, asking for backup. But then I started to throw up. Big time. And I didn’t chase up what was going on. I took my eye off the ball.’
‘Once you’d said you needed help, surely it should have been despatched?’
‘It should. Only we—no, I mustn’t say anything. Please don’t look at me like that. It’s an ongoing situation, Jane, that’s what we call it. So while you can speculate all you like, don’t speculate to me. OK?’
I gestured back to Will. ‘Why don’t you tell us what you can? So we can both hear?’
She shrugged, but followed me to the bedside, and even took Will’s hand. ‘Lady Preston’s been denied bail again,’ she said, slowly and very clearly, as if the injuries had affected his ears, too. They might well have done. I mustn’t sneer. ‘And the girl Price who pretended to be one of us – no, you wouldn’t know about that, but I daresay that if you lie there long enough Jane’ll tell you all about it – anyway, this girl’s been denied bail too. But she says she was just a stable hand and was only obeying orders, which is an excuse we’ve all heard before somewhere, haven’t we? Her ladyship is still chuntering about her pictures and I bet they’ll come up in court.’ She turned to me: ‘We’ve looked; you’ve looked. They’re not there. Probably never were there. So don’t give them another thought. The old cow’s off her head. But not too crazy to stand trial, I hope. She’s up on a nice long list of charges, including murder. The bodies in the cottage next to Jane’s,’ she added belatedly.
I touched Will’s hand. ‘I know you tried to tell me that the fire had been started by a vagrant, and I think you were just trying to soften the blow. This Price woman that Elaine mentioned – she said that they’d found two children. It turned out it was about the only bit of truth that she was telling.’ Despite myself, my voice cracked. Today wasn’t the day to tell him the rest of their tiny story. Or perhaps it was. ‘The villagers rallied round wonderfully. You may recall that we don’t have a vicar at the moment, so do you know what Carol, the lovely churchwarden, did? She only contacted the Archbishop of Canterbury direct and said that since they’d probably never be identified properly the kids ought to be buried in a village where they – their graves, anyway – would be cared for. Wrayford, in other words. And would he come and do the service. And by the way, could he bring an imam with him, since there was every chance the kids might be Muslim. He said yes. And yes to an imam. It’s happening tomorrow. He’s going to gear the service towards children, because Wrayford and Wrayford Episcopi schools will be there. Zunaid will plant a shrub. Everyone’s been asked to bring a toy, not to leave on the graves, but to give to some of the other children Lady P had trafficked. She and her estate manager.’
Elaine said, her voice veering between gruff and whispy, ‘Zunaid gave Pam some pictures he’d drawn. He’s quite a little artist, that kid. Do you remember how he was taken to hospital with dog bites? Him and little Georgy, a Romanian kid who stayed with him? Two kids? He drew some pictures with four kids and a dog to show Pam what happened. Two dogs with blood on their enormous teeth; one child up a tree; one following the first up the tree; two lying on the ground. Him and Georgy, those two. So someone was left with two bodies. We think that the fire was probably a way of disposing of evidence, though we can’t be sure. Matt Storm is a taciturn guy. He may yet turn Queen’s evidence of course … As for that bastard, Gerry Paine, managing to sink his racist notions so long as he was making money from the people-smugglers: how does he look his kids in the eye? Are you OK with them staying at your school, by the way?’
‘They’ve done nothing wrong. They need stability.’
‘Don’t we all?’ She dabbed furiously at her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘This low-fat diet is making me all emotional. God knows why. Anyway, we’ve nailed one mystery. Who ran Jane off the road.’
I touched Will’s hand. ‘Did I tell you about a crazy woman trying to bottle me at the pub barbecue? It was while you were talking to the fire service about my – Brian’s – cottage? Well, Elaine saved not just my life but also my skin. Grazia Baker, wife of Marcus Baker and mother of a not terribly loveable couple of kids. It turns out she was so jealous of me because I’d fainted in Marcus’s arms, the only way to deal with me was a prickly hedge. So apparently my fake faint at the cricket match convinced her that to maintain her husband’s fidelity she must … er … bottle me. Nice lady. As for her husband, though – did he mean to kill me when he threw a ball from close range during that match or was it just a lousy throw? Somehow I don’t see the case going to court. But he has been suspended from the team.’ Elaine looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to push off, Will, but Robin will pop in to see you tomorrow. Look after yourself.’ She covered her mouth at her gaffe. But Will gave no sign of resenting it.
We had finished The House at Pooh Corner for the fifth time. It was hard to keep positive, despite what the medics had said, especially as the next item I had to read to him was my analysis of the costs involved in admitting a child with severe behavioural difficulties into Wrayford School. I had got only two sentences into the introduction when Elaine came in, visibly slimmer but clearly in a bad mood.
‘They keep postponing my appointment to see the consultant,’ she exploded. ‘Have you any idea how hard it is to avoid animal fat altogether? I fell off the wagon over the weekend – ended up in A&E again. Hey-ho. And how’s Will?’
‘I’m sure you’d like to hear how things are going, wouldn’t you, Will?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, young man, you missed a trip to France for starters. Just when we needed someone who spoke French. You’d have been first choice. We’re liaising with the French authorities because we’re still trying to nail Justin Forbes for his part in the trafficking case.’
‘That’s the umpiring solicitor who lives in Churcham,’ I said. ‘The guy with the promontory.’
‘I suppose that’s one word for it,’ Elaine observed. ‘I’ve heard others. How big is it, Jane?’ By now her giggles were audible enough to have attracted the attention of a nurse. ‘Sorry. Anyway, we think we’ve got enough evidence from his phone and his vehicle movements to nail him. And Robin may have found him on his radar too: circulating images of what we’re sure are Middle-Eastern kids being horribly sexually abused. Good job you didn’t date him, Jane. Creepy bastard. How’s Brian Dawes, by the way?’
‘That’s a fine example of a non sequitur,’ I said. ‘Brian’s very subdued.’ As much to deflect her as anything, I added, ‘By the way, have you got any news on Harry and Doreen yet? It’s been ages! They can’t just have disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘One of my lads digs through the records of unidentified bodies every morning. And we’ve trawled through all the local scrap dealers for that Fiesta. Now what have I said?’
‘Nothing.’ But she had. The first verb she’d used. ‘It’s just that Ed had access to quite large diggers and such. Elaine, what if the car – what if Doreen and Harry are buried in someone’s beautifully landscaped garden?’
‘I’m on to it.’ She was on her way already.
I sat, reading my dry paperwork aloud. In my head were some of the archbishop’s words from the funeral service: that sometimes, in response to prayer, God said yes, sometimes he said no, and sometimes he said not yet. The trouble was, I had no idea what he was saying about Will.
A couple of days later in the middle of running practice I got a text from Elaine.
Guess what? We’ve found a cuckoo in our nest. You may even know her. Your ‘friend’ Ed’s sister. That’s the reason there was no backup for Will when he was being beaten up – the English guys claim it was some of th
eir ‘clients’ that did that, by the way – and why despite all the information we should have got, we never made any progress. It hurts when it’s one of our own. E xxx
PACT were making steady, if undramatic, progress with my new house. Despite Mrs Penkridge and the terrible state of the garden, with no Ed to deal with it, I felt more optimistic. Perhaps I could make it a home.
Out of the blue a phone call came from Caffy one night after I’d got back from the hospital: could I do lunch the coming Saturday? Her place? Come about eleven. And I wasn’t to use the front door, but go round the back.
Who could resist such an afterthought?
She lived in one of the loveliest houses I’ve ever seen. Georgian, with all that that implies in terms of restraint and elegance. It glowed in the soft autumn sun.
‘Yes. Paula and her team did all the work on this: I was just a junior then. Then, for various reasons I won’t bother you with now, the owners more or less adopted me. Now they’re getting older I can keep an eye on them. Not that I’d ever admit it. They’re in the West Indies at the moment – they’d be happy for me to show you round.’
It was like having a personal tour of a National Trust property, without a whiff of overt heritage. Every room declared it was someone’s much-loved home, without having to resort to silver-framed family photos coyly placed on a grand piano.
She let me look my fill, as if it gave her pleasure to see me so happy. At last she said, ‘Let’s go and sit on the terrace: it’s sheltered enough. And you’re to drink whatever you want. If you go over the limit, my lovely Tom will come and collect you and we can sort out your car as and when.’ She poured champagne. ‘You need a break, Jane – soon. Not working, I can tell you that now, like you did over half-term, and not sitting beside Will all the hours God sends.’
‘I don’t just sit. I work. I talk to him. I hope and pray.’
‘Of course you do. Tom knows several of the consultants there. They say you’re next in line for a halo. But it may not work, Jane – have you thought of that? Go on, swear and shout and pace up and down. And even if your loving kindness raises him from the dead, what then? Will his brain ever function properly? Will his personality be the same? Will you fall in love? Or find it was all a chimera? No, I’m not telling you to give up on him. Never in a million years. But you’ve lost enough of your own life, one way and another.’
I was furious. ‘What have the consultants told Tom?’
‘Nothing except what he can see for himself. What you can see for yourself.’
‘What would you do?’ I heard myself ask.
‘No, I don’t give advice.’
‘You’re not my therapist!’ I shot back.
‘I wouldn’t dare be! Once upon a time, Jane, in circumstances quite unlike yours, this man got a crush on me. When I couldn’t requite his passion, he killed himself. It took me a while to get over that. I didn’t love him. I didn’t even like him all that much. But it was all too easy to blame myself. In the end I realised that if he could choose what to do with his life, I could choose what to do with mine.’
‘Will didn’t choose this!’
‘Of course he didn’t. But I’m talking to you. About your life and your choices.’ She took my hand. ‘Despite the police urging you to keep a low profile, you chose to be not just a teacher, but a head teacher, with all those young lives in your hands. Can you tell me – no, tell yourself – that you’re not neglecting them? You’re certainly ignoring your own needs. Yes? Now, that’s the end of my lecture. Before you drink any more and you’re not safe to swim, how about a dip in Todd’s pool? Plenty of cossies in the changing rooms …’
I was just setting off for church next morning when the phone rang. ‘I’ve got great news – well, interesting news.’ Elaine dropped her bellow to an ordinary conversational level. I could hold the phone nearer my ear. ‘That Fiesta. We’ve found it. Another step to nailing the bastard, since it arrived in Sir Something Whatsit’s garden at the time lovely Ed was working on it. Or that’s what the experts say.’
‘Harry and Doreen?’
‘Not such good news. They were in it. The car, not the plot. Almost certainly dead when they were buried, though.’
‘Why? They were decent people!’
‘Decent people renting out accommodation to people some very unpleasant folk had trafficked. No doubt they were afraid the poor old pair would give the game away if they carried on being nice to strangers.’
‘So the first aid on my knees signed their death warrant. My God.’
‘Yup. Bastards.’ Her tone changed. ‘Hey, when I yelled about good news, you didn’t think – I mean, hell, Jane – you didn’t think I meant about Will?’
Of course I had. ‘Of course not. Even though I’m not next-of-kin I think someone from the William Harvey would have let me know as soon as there was what they will insist on calling a material change. Any news of your gall bladder operation?’
‘Tomorrow. Home at teatime. Come and have a cuppa as soon as you can.’
‘Parents’ night. But I could do the next evening?’
She’d never know how much effort it took to say that. Or to say I’d go on a weekend course designed to help heads like me integrate refugee children into the classroom. Or to promise to coach the new women’s cricket team one night a week.
Any time I was passing, of course, I always popped in to see Will. Always. I had read all the Pooh stories scores of times now.
What if he woke and found I wasn’t there? Would I ever forgive myself? But what if he didn’t know me anyway?
Caffy and my therapist had to put up with a lot from me for a few days. In the end, though, the advice came silently from Lavender and Nosey. I must leave a substitute in place.
They’d moved Will out of the ITU to a room where I suspected all he was getting was palliative care. A room with windows. At least if he opened his eyes – if he ever opened his eyes – he’d see sky and distant trees.
‘Will,’ I said, taking his hand as always, ‘I’m going to be really busy for a bit. But you know I shall be thinking of you, and will come to see you whenever I can. I promise. But while I’m not here, there’ll be someone here on the bedside chair, always watching over you. Yes, I’ve brought Winnie the Pooh.’ I tucked the bear’s paw into Will’s poor rigid claw. ‘And you know that Pooh’s always ready for an expotition.’
We hope you enjoyed this book.
Do you want to know about our other great reads, download free extracts and enter competitions?
If so, visit our website www.allisonandbusby.com.
Sign up to our monthly newsletter (www.allisonandbusby.com/newsletter) for exclusive content and offers, news of our brand new releases, upcoming events with your favourite authors and much more.
And why not click to follow us on Facebook (AllisonandBusbyBooks)
and Twitter (@AllisonandBusby)?
We’d love to hear from you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JUDITH CUTLER, Birmingham’s Queen of Crime, began her working life as a college lecturer. She has written nearly forty novels, with protagonists ranging from the nineteenth-century vicar-detective Tobias Campion to Chief Superintendent Fran Harman. Now Jane Cowan joins their ranks. Judith is married to fellow writer Edward Marston, whom she partners in the speaking duo, ‘Murder Ancient and Modern’.
judithcutler.com
By Judith Cutler
THE JANE COWAN SERIES
Head Start
Head Count
THE TOBIAS CAMPION SERIES
The Keeper of Secrets
Shadow of the Past
Cheating the Hangman
THE FRAN HARMAN SERIES
Life Sentence
Cold Pursuit
Still Waters
THE JOSIE WELFORD SERIES
The Food Detective
The Chinese Takeout
Scar Tissue
Staging Death
Drawing the Line
COPYR
IGHT
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2017.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2017.
Copyright © 2017 by JUDITH CUTLER
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2095–8
Head Count Page 24