by Chris Dolley
And Annabel came running – or, more accurately, walking – to her death.
“What did you use?” asked Shand. “Sheets on the floor to make sure Annabel left no trace?”
“Polythene sheets,” said Helena. “I laid them out on the study floor and told her we were decorating. I said the papers were on George’s desk, picked up the spade I’d placed behind the door and hit her. I’m a lot stronger than people think. You can’t dig a quarter acre garden for thirty years without building up some muscles, chief inspector.”
“So you laid Annabel on her stomach–”
“Lividity, chief inspector. So many people forget the importance of keeping the body in the same position that you intend it to be found.”
“Then when George came back, you wrapped her in the polythene, put her in your car and drove her to the circle.”
“I had to change my clothes,” said Helena. “Twice. I had to be found in the same clothes I’d been wearing that evening, but I couldn’t risk any fibres or hairs from Annabel. So I changed in between and George got rid of them along with the polythene sheet and the scissors I cut the duct tape with. He put them in a skip outside a house in Sherminster. They should be gone by now.”
Shand sat back and listened. He hadn’t thought to ask anyone what clothes Helena had been wearing that day. Or to search for material the body might have been wrapped in. As soon as they’d found the spade, duct tape and handbag – that was it. Search over. Nothing more to find except the car.
“Which brings us to George,” said Shand, unsure how to phrase the rest of the question. He found it hard to reconcile Helena the calculating murderer with Helena the loving wife. But she had been a loving wife. However much he’d begun to doubt his instincts over the last week he was sure of that.
“Yes,” said Helena, sighing deeply. “George.” She brushed away a tear and took several seconds to compose herself. “I should never have involved George. That was a mistake I shall take to my grave. He said he wanted to help, but I’m sure he was only saying that to please me. He’d have done anything for me.”
Helena’s bottom lip quivered and she covered her face. Shand looked away.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling herself together. “He never could lie. He’d start to sweat and get nervous. He was too good a man that was his problem. And you were too good a detective not to notice. Sooner or later he would have blurted something out and I couldn’t.” Her voice faltered. “I couldn’t bear to see that dear, sweet man suffer. He couldn’t have lived with the disgrace. He was too sensitive for that. Prison would have killed him.”
“So you did it yourself?”
Helena nodded, her head bowed.
“I tell myself it was a kindness. Sometimes I even believe it.”
Shand waited for her to continue. She stayed silent, one finger resting on her wedding ring and slowly rotating it around her third finger.
“You took the Valium from Jacintha during one of the WI meetings?”
“Yes, George and I drank the wine the night before,” she said, abstractedly, still playing with the ring. “Gabe Marsh’s wine. I told George we were getting rid of all the evidence. He was relieved. I don’t think he noticed that I never touched the bottle.”
Shand was confused. Why had they drunk the wine the night before?
Helena continued. “I wasn’t sure how Valium would taste in wine so I put it in the curry.”
“What?” said Shand. “But we tested the bottle.”
“I mixed some of the Valium with a teaspoon of wine and poured it back into the bottle. Then I put the bottle in the box by the door.”
“And switched bottles when you came home with the Brigadess?”
“Yes, while she was in the lounge. It only took a second. Though I could barely concentrate. I thought George would have passed away quietly in his favourite chair. I didn’t think…”
She broke down.
Shand could imagine the shock. She wouldn’t have known if George was dead or alive. He might have rung for an ambulance and been taken to hospital.
“George probably heard the chicken crow,” he said. “Lee Molland was using your stables to hide the Athelcott One.”
He stopped himself speculating out loud what had happened next. Did George collapse in the dirt of the garden shed? Or come over drowsy and sit down first, slowly sinking to a peaceful death?
He changed the subject.
“What I don’t understand is why? Why Annabel? Why now?”
She took a tissue from her handbag and blew her nose.
“Have you ever faced death, chief inspector?”
“No.”
“It changes everything. Your perspective, how you look at your life. And it makes you ask the question – ‘How shall I be remembered? Have I made a difference?’”
Shand waited, was she going to blame it on the brain tumour?
“Two months ago I asked myself that question and did not like the answer. My life is the village. I was born here, educated here, married here. We were never blessed with children, George and I. The village is all we’ve ever had.
“But it’s dying. Bit by bit, year by year. The school’s gone, the shop’s gone, most of the jobs have gone. When I was a girl everyone who lived in the parish, worked in the parish. We were an agricultural community. Now we’re a dormitory village, a retirement village, a repository for people who work in the cities and have a romanticised view of life in the countryside. Except as soon as they move here they want to change it to something else. A suburban park with flower boxes, and hanging baskets, and no mud on the road, or noisy animals in the yards.
“Every year more of them come. The house prices shoot up. Our families move out. We can’t compete with the affluent families from the Southeast. There are no jobs or affordable accommodation for our youngsters. So they leave. In another ten years, they’ll be more incomers than villagers. In another twenty, no one will care.”
“So you killed Annabel and framed Gabe Marsh to even up the numbers?”
“Oh, much more than that,” said Annabel, spitting out the words. “I wanted them discredited. The Marchants, Marsh, Jacintha, the whole Gang of Four. I wanted them vilified in the press. I wanted them tarred as murderers and conspirators. I wanted to wake this village up to the greed that’s destroying the countryside. I thought…”
She slowed down and suddenly looked tired as though drained by the outburst. She took a deep breath and continued at a slower, more considered pace.
“I thought I could give the village another fifty years. Make sure the villagers stood up against the incomers, and make the incomers think twice about living where they knew they weren’t wanted.”
“So you went about collecting items from the Gang of Four,” said Shand. “Annabel’s cardboard box from the jumble sale; the wine bottle, duct tape and match book from the garden party, and Jacintha’s pills.”
“Yes.” She patted her handbag. “The advantage of a voluminous handbag. I collected anything I thought might be useful. Then I worked on the plan and waited for George’s stag night. I didn’t think the Brigadess would arrange her hunt for the same night.”
Shand wondered if her plan would ever have worked. Framing Gabe Marsh certainly had. Initially. And without Lee Molland to muddy the waters, or Marius to see her moving the body…
But would it have changed people’s minds? Perhaps. Even if Marsh or Marchant weren’t charged, the suspicion would remain. The press would find out about the fingerprints and Gabriel’s girlfriend. Conspiracy theories would abound. Was Gabe being protected by his relationship with the Chief Constable’s daughter? Were the police biased in favour of the rich and influential? There’d be a backlash which Helena could feed with well-timed stories of how Annabel and the Gang of Four had threatened her. And with only a few months to live she’d have both the sympathy of the public and the knowledge that no libel suit could ever hurt her. She could say what she wanted. And many people would believe her.
Bu
t would that save the village?
He could see it making life difficult for incomers. In the short term. But houses would still come on the market and local people would still be outbid. Athelcott was only three hours from London, well within the outer commuter belt. And affluent buyers would still dream of their rural retreat.
But maybe it would change their outlook, make them more respectful of the community they were moving to. Or fearful.
Who could tell?
Helena hadn’t said a word all the time he’d been thinking. She seemed withdrawn now, her eyes unfocussed and her head slightly bowed. The strain, thought Shand.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come down the station,” he said. “To make a formal statement.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, staring unfocussed at the table. “I’ve written everything down.”
“Where?”
“A letter,” she said, stifling a yawn. “There are two of them on the table at home.”
“Why…” He was confused. Why would Helena write out a confession? Had she suspected the meeting was a set-up?
“One’s for the coroner and one’s … for you.” She was having difficulty speaking. Her eyes were heavy and closing.
Shand looked down at the cup in front of him, then the empty cup opposite. Had she? He grabbed Helena’s cup, picked it up, sniffed it, stared at the dregs. Then looked at the camera. Had she switched cups?
“Helena!” he shouted, reaching forward and grabbing her shoulders. “What have you done?”
Helena smiled, her eyes firmly closed, her head barely able to support itself.
“No reason concern,” she said, the words slurring. “Vastly preferable death than … cancer had in mind for me.”
Shand fought with his phone – all fingers and thumbs – he rang for an ambulance. “What have you taken, Helena? Valium?”
Her head lolled against his chest as he tried to make her stand up. Inadequate medical knowledge rattled around his head. What should he do? Force her to walk? Keep her awake? What?
Marcus and Saffron appeared, breathing hard.
“I didn’t see her switch cups,” said Marcus. “Honest, I didn’t. It’s all my fault. I went to fetch Saffron.”
“It’s not your fault,” snapped Shand. “Check her pockets for the bottle. We’re taking her to hospital.”
They half walked, half carried Helena out of the restaurant, through the foyer into the car park. The ambulance had to be thirty minutes away. Quicker to drive themselves. Or was he making a huge mistake? Should he try to make her vomit? Why didn’t he know these things!
They got her into Saffron’s car, put Helena in the back with Shand. Saffron took the front passenger seat and Marcus drove. Fast. Rubber burning, back-end swinging, tyre-squealing fast. Helena drifted in and out of lucidity. Her body swinging around the bends with the movement of the car.
She noticed Saffron and smiled. “I wouldn’t have hurt you, dear,” she said. “I knew something was wrong when you left. Too easy.” She started to drift. “Far too easy.”
Shand phoned the hospital. Cancelled the ambulance. Asked for help. “What should I do?”
The car slued and skidded. There was nothing he could do. He didn’t even know what she’d taken. The bottle said ‘artificial sweetener.’
He threw the phone to Saffron and grabbed Helena, trying to force her awake. “What did you take? We need to know!”
Helena didn’t answer, her body hung lifeless in his hands. He felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready.
“Helena! What did you take?”
Her eyes opened and for a second focussed directly upon him.
She smiled. “I’m glad it was you,” she said. And then she clutched at his hand. “Remember the second letter,” she said. “Your eyes only. It’s a present.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Shand watched them take her away. Doctors and nurses shouting instructions while he stood motionless. Would they stabilise her? Would she pull through? And, finally, what if she did?
She would be dead before there was time for a trial. So what had he actually achieved? Preservation of life for life’s sake, or the necessity of bringing a murderer to justice?
He wasn’t sure. And, somehow, he didn’t think he ever would be.
And why was he so upset? That was what he couldn’t understand. He felt more sympathy for Helena than he ever had for Annabel. Which was ridiculous. She was the victim not Helena. And yet…
There was still that connection, that hand around his ankle that wouldn’t let go. He didn’t want her to die, he didn’t want her to be guilty, he didn’t want…
He had to leave. This was ridiculous.
“Would you mind staying with her?” he asked Saffron, barely waiting for her answer. “Call me if there’s any news.”
“Come on,” he said to Marcus. “We’ve two letters to find.”
~
The first letter was propped up against a vase. It was addressed to the coroner as Helena had said. He opened it.
Inside was the confession, written in a neat blue hand – using a fountain pen by the look of it. Everything was there. Everything she’d said at the restaurant plus a few other details. Her struggle to find an explanation for George’s nervousness, her confiding in the Brigadess about an invented argument between her and George about chemotherapy. And then the remorse the next day – the anger, the disgust about tarnishing his name. George had never raised his voice to her in thirty years of marriage. She should never have involved him, she should never have killed him.
Shand wondered if her brain tumour had affected her reasoning. It must have. How else could you explain a woman like Helena Benson turning to murder?
He read the note again. There was no mention of suicide or her planned meeting with Saffron.
He wondered when she’d written it. To prop it up against a vase and address it to the coroner sounded like the final act of a suicide. But nothing in the note backed that suggestion up.
And the name on the envelope was typewritten. Helena didn’t have a typewriter.
“Marcus,” he said. “Have a look for a typewriter.”
He looked for the second letter. It was on a place mat. Chief Inspector Shand, it said, written on the envelope in that same copperplate hand. Just as he was about to open it, his phone rang. It was Taylor, his voice barely above a whisper.
“DI Morrison’s arrived. Wiggins has called a press conference to announce he’s taking over the case.”
“When?”
“In twenty minutes.”
Shand grabbed both letters and stuffed them into his pocket. “Marcus!” he shouted. “We’ve got to get back to Sturton!”
~
Shand had only one thought – the press conference – he had to get there. If he phoned ahead, they’d either not believe him or take all the credit.
He checked his watch, his wrist flying from one side of the car to the other as Marcus threw Saffron’s car into a series of S bends. Whatever time it was, it was late.
He rang Saffron. Helena was stable, but critical. He rang the restaurant, apologised for their swift departure and asked them to lock the storeroom and secure the equipment. Then he rang Taylor.
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Wiggins?”
“Mr. Shand’s not here at the moment, sir. Would you like to speak to DI Morrison?”
Shand heard a voice in the background ask, ‘Who’s that?’
“Mr. Shand’s informant, sir,” said Taylor. “I think another asylum seeker’s gone missing.”
“Very funny,” said Shand. “We’re coming in. The case is closed. But we need someone to pick up the tapes and surveillance equipment from the restaurant. Someone you can trust.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
~
The car park was packed – television vans, satellite dishes and lines of cables everywhere.
“Park by the do
or,” said Shand, unbuckling his seat-belt. They were late. Even with Marcus driving they’d missed the press conference’s scheduled start.
Shand burst from the car and nearly collided with a youth standing by the steps.
“’Scuse me,” said the boy. “You with the press?”
Shand was about to push past when something registered. That face. He’d seen it before.
He took a second look. “Davy Perkins?” he said.
The boy’s face lit up. “You recognise me?”
For some reason the expression ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ sprung to mind. Fortunately he coaxed it to spring somewhere else.
“Of course, I do, Davy. Where have you been?”
“Ibiza,” he said. “Look, are you a journalist? Only, I like got this story I want to sell. For the right price. If you’re interested, like?”
“Come with me, Davy,” said Shand, folding an arm around the youth’s shoulder, a plan already forming in the devious left-hand side of his brain. “I’ll introduce you, if you like. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You give me a quick run-down of where you’ve been and why.”
“Shouldn’t we talk money first?”
“Think of me as your publicity agent, Davy. I don’t need to know the whole story just enough to introduce you to the press. Now what have you been doing all year?”
Shand tried to use Marcus and Davy as a shield as they swung through the foyer. But the station sergeant saw him.
“Mr. Shand?” he called.
Shand waved an acknowledgement and hurried the others along, pushing through the swing doors towards the conference extension. No doubt a phone call to DCS Wiggins was imminent.
“I worked the clubs in Spain like,” said Davy as they entered the corridor. “Then I met this bloke going to Ibiza.”
“Why didn’t you contact your parents?”
“Nothin’ to say. I wanted to like wait until I was famous and show everyone how wrong they’d been about me.”
“And now you’re famous.”
Davy grinned from ear to sun-tanned ear. “Yeah. Cool, innit?”
~
Memories – none of them good – tormented Shand as he walked down that long corridor to the conference room. What kind of boxer was he going to be this time? One who knew the fix was in and had only to show up to win? Or a gatecrasher about to be pounced upon the moment he stepped into view?