by Rebecca Tope
‘Probably. And she’ll blame me.’ He was quiet for a few strides. ‘And you looked so pally with them,’ he accused. ‘Practically encouraging them.’
‘I didn’t mean to. We were talking about Juliet. I nearly forgot about the funeral. They’re not very upset about Mr Biddulph dying, so they’re not like the usual mourners.’
‘And now they’re just making mischief for the sake of it – is that what you mean?’
‘I think they want to make a point. It can’t be very nice when your father tries to pretend you don’t exist. They want people to know the truth.’
‘Well, a funeral is not the place for it.’
‘No. Of course it isn’t.’ Thea’s own thoughts remained more with the murder than the burial. ‘Luc knew Juliet,’ she burst out. ‘Isn’t that amazing? She was a volunteer at a centre in Paxford, and pushed his wheelchair. He said the same as everybody else – they all loved her.’
‘Well, at least he didn’t kill her,’ said Drew, rather absently. ‘Did you say Paxford? Does one of them live there then? Surely they can’t be as nearby as Paxford? They’d never have kept out of Lawrence’s sight, if they were practically down the road.’
‘I still don’t know the answer to that. I get the feeling the centre’s got a big catchment area. Nancy Spiller told me about it only this morning. That’s a coincidence,’ she noted. ‘And it links everybody up alarmingly neatly.’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never been there. It’s not a nursing home. Nobody’s ever died there, as far as I know.’
‘You mean you’ve never had to remove a body from there.’
‘Of course that’s what I mean,’ he said impatiently. ‘What else?’
‘I wonder whether Gladwin’s been to talk to them about Juliet?’
‘Who’s Nancy Spiller?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Oh – wife of Anthony, who’s the nephew of your Mr Fleming. The one who found Juliet’s body.’
Drew groaned. ‘Don’t you get the feeling we’re running on parallel tracks here? You can only think about the murder investigation, and I’ve got to focus on the burials. And never the twain shall meet.’
‘You should be glad about that,’ she teased him, refusing to worry about his tetchy mood. ‘But they’re coming dangerously close together, with one of your mourners finding Juliet, and you seeing her a day or two before she died. And surely everybody’s assuming she was there in the first place because of a funeral? Hovering around, waiting for a burial – or else wanting to commune with somebody already there. In a grave.’ Her brain began whirring in a higher gear. ‘If she knew Nancy Spiller, she might also have known the rest of the family – it might well have been Mr Fleming she was visiting. And that takes us back to the nephew as a person of interest. I suppose I should tell Gladwin,’ she concluded. ‘Just in case she’s missed a step.’
‘Lord help us,’ sighed Drew, with affectionate exasperation. ‘What’s to become of us?’
‘Although, Nancy didn’t seem to know Juliet,’ she mused, deliberately prolonging the source of Drew’s complaint. Then she nudged him with her shoulder. ‘You love it, really. Stop pretending you don’t. If it bothered you that much, you’d never have got together with me. You can’t say you weren’t warned.’
‘All my own fault, then,’ he said lightly. They were twenty yards from home. ‘Did you have any lunch?’
‘Nope. Did you?’
‘Leftovers.’
‘Right.’ It was nearly half past two, she realised. ‘Time for tea and biscuits. I’ll make it while you phone Linda Biddulph. You never know – she might be glad to get everything resolved. Clovis and his family seem perfectly civilised, after all. Once they’ve got Stephen out of the way, they might all end up the best of friends.’
‘Ever the optimist,’ he said. ‘And I suppose you think Maggs is going to change her mind as well.’
She had forgotten about Maggs. The parallel lines analogy was looking more accurate than she had wanted to admit. Where she could think about little but Gladwin and the death of Juliet, Drew was obsessing about the future of his business. ‘She might,’ she said. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
She waited until they’d had their tea and Drew had disappeared into his study for a second time. There remained roughly twenty minutes before the children came home. The dog was throwing reproachful spaniel glances her way, born of a day spent cooped up in the house for no good reason. ‘Oh, stop it,’ Thea told her. ‘You can run about in the garden, like most dogs have to be happy with these days. Or get Stephanie to take you down to the field when she comes in.’
She turned her back on the animal and fished her phone out of her bag. Gladwin did not answer the summons, so Thea left a message. ‘Just to tell you that I’ve met more people who knew Juliet. Well, one of them says she didn’t, but she goes to the Paxford Centre, so she might know her by sight. They’re two of our funeral people. Sounds as if it could explain a few connections.’
It was a mangled effort, she knew. And it was highly unlikely that the police had failed to already discover the significance of the Paxford Centre. Gladwin had sent somebody along to ask about Juliet’s involvement there, and might easily be making all sorts of connections, just as Thea was. But Thea’s connections were special, in that they involved Drew and his funerals – families that Gladwin had not seen as relevant to the murder. Her investigations were likely to be more focused on Juliet’s circle of friends in the care system.
The fact that Drew knew about the centre was irritating. It reminded her that he had talked to far more local people in the past year than she had herself. He had bedded himself in as the provider of an essential service, with all the personal attentions anyone could wish for. Linda Biddulph wasn’t the only one to splurge the details of her family to him. His knack of asking the right questions, and then sitting back to listen to long convoluted responses, was indisputable.
Gladwin called back shortly before four o’clock. ‘You think we should have another look at the place in Paxford?’ she began. ‘Okay, I’ll go along with that. I’ve got more sense than to dismiss any suggestion made by Thea Osborne. Sorry – Slocombe. So, listen – I’m sending somebody round to talk to you. She’s a new DS, called Caz Barkley. This is her first murder, and she’s doing a great job so far. The thing is – and I absolutely shouldn’t be telling you this – she’s a product of the care system. She’s got a special sensitivity about the victim here. That works both ways, of course. Helps and hinders. Don’t tell her I told you. Just keep it in mind.’
‘In case I say something crass,’ Thea realised.
‘You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment.’
‘What time is she coming?’
‘In about twenty minutes.’
Thea sighed. ‘I’ll take her out for a walk, then, with the dog. There won’t be anywhere here that we can have a proper talk. Unless Drew lets me use his office.’ She was far from sure that there was much prospect of that.
‘The walk’ll do her good,’ laughed Gladwin, and left Thea to take it from there.
Caz Barkley arrived two minutes ahead of the predicted time. Thea opened the door to a young woman adorned with a nose ring and eyebrow studs. What a stereotype, was her instant reaction. The dark-brown hair was cut short, and there was no hint of any make-up. She wore a long yellow cotton top over brown leggings. Her trainers were black, and very clean. She was four inches taller and two or three stone heavier than Thea.
‘Do you mind if we go for a walk and talk as we go?’ Thea asked. ‘My dog hasn’t been out all day, and she needs a run. There’s a field just down there.’ She pointed.
The detective looked doubtful. ‘Is it muddy?’
‘Not at all. It hasn’t rained for at least a week. It’s really quite nice.’
‘Okay, then.’
She appeared to be in her late twenties, with an accent that betrayed at least some years spent in Birmingham, but most likel
y the softer, southern edges. While not actually fat, she was well covered. There was no suggestion of any sort of fitness regime, no bulging muscles to be seen. There was a preoccupied look in her eyes, as if she was inwardly repeating protocols and instructions as to how to conduct an interview.
‘We’re supposed to be talking about the Paxford Centre, I think,’ said Thea, trying to be helpful. She had whistled for Hepzie, who bounded joyfully ahead of them, as if liberated from a month of incarceration.
‘I’m not sure I understand why,’ said Barkley stiffly. ‘We’ve talked to the people there. Juliet Wilson went as a volunteer, once a week at most. They all spoke highly of her. It’s not at all like the place in Stow, which is only for people with learning difficulties.’
‘Was it one of those situations where they helped her more than she helped them? I mean – did they let her think she was one of the carers, when really it was the other way around?’
This was met with a stony silence.
‘Sorry – I probably worded that badly. I’ve never been to the place, so I’ve got no idea how it operates.’
‘No,’ said the DS with feeling.
‘So tell me.’
‘It’s a converted mansion. Must have been a stately home, sort of place. A mile or more from the village. There’s some NHS funding for three or four full-time health professionals, and a lot of individual units for different therapists. It works very well, I think. It feels like a community, all quite relaxed. Unusual in that way. Obviously, the volunteers all have their DBS checks, and they have to sign in and out, same as the visitors do.’
‘What’s a DBS?’
‘It’s the new CRB. They changed the name. Disclosure and Barring it is now.’
‘Lord help us. Do visitors need to be checked as well?’
‘Of course not.’ The detective stopped walking and turned to face Thea. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘The whole thing’s ridiculous, if you ask me,’ retorted Thea. ‘Does this place cater for children as well?’
Caz shook her head. ‘Adults only.’
‘But they have people with all sorts of problems? Disabilities. Physical injuries like Luc Biddulph, and mental ones like Nancy Spiller.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Two people I met for the first time today, who probably don’t know each other, but both attend this Paxford place. He was injured in a road accident, and she’s had depression. Maybe they do know each other,’ she finished thoughtfully. ‘And they both knew Juliet.’
‘Who are they?’ repeated Caz.
‘Oh – sorry. Both people we’ve done funerals for. Actually, one of the funerals isn’t until tomorrow.’ A sudden alarming thought hit her, which she definitely did not want to share. ‘Isn’t this field nice? Perfect for letting the dog run around. You’d think lots of people would use it, wouldn’t you – but it’s only us.’
‘Yeah.’ The detective did not even glance around. ‘Grew up in the city, me. Not all that good with fields. Are there any cows?’ She had only walked a few steps into the enclosure, before stopping and watching the spaniel quartering the whole field.
‘Never seen any. I’m not sure what they do with it, to be honest. Maybe they’ll cut the grass for hay.’
‘Funny place. Haven’t met a single farmer since I’ve been here, but there’s all this land everywhere.’
Thea breathed more easily, hoping her distraction strategy had worked. ‘They’re mostly big tycoons with thousands of acres. Far less livestock than there used to be. This one’s got a footpath running across it, that goes to Chipping Campden. It’s the quickest way from us.’
‘It can’t be.’
‘Well, I’ve never actually tested it. I’ll race you sometime, and we’ll see if you can get there quicker in a car.’
‘Obviously, I can.’
Thea had a feeling she was coming across as teasing, and even a bit superior. ‘Well, then,’ she said. ‘I hope I haven’t brought you over here for nothing. Gladwin always likes to know about connections, so I thought I should emphasise the significance of the Paxford place – but now I really think about it, it’s probably not at all relevant. We already know that Juliet was a familiar figure all round the villages. Just about everybody knew her. It was only that I’d never heard of this centre, and then suddenly everybody was talking about it. But it’s just me being ignorant. You’ve already been there for yourself.’
‘I know a couple of people there,’ Caz Barkley nodded. ‘It’s a really good place.’ She turned to Thea. ‘Has your dog run about enough now?’
‘Well, not really. But then she’d stay out all day if she had the chance. We can go back if you like.’
‘I’ll need a note of the names of the people you’re talking about. The ones who knew Juliet. If they’ve both had cause to use your burial service in the past few days, that makes them of interest to us. Where is the burial field, anyway? This isn’t it, is it?’
‘No. It’s the other way.’ Inwardly she slapped herself. Why hadn’t she thought it all through more carefully before making that phone call? Nancy Spiller and Luc Biddulph were both liable to object to police attentions. ‘But, honestly, I think it’s a red herring. I was too quick to call Gladwin.’
‘Not at all. It seems to us it might be very helpful.’
‘But you’ve already got all the details for the Spillers,’ Thea realised. ‘He’s the man who found Juliet’s body. I went to see his wife this morning, and she mentioned the Paxford place. But she might not have known Juliet at all. She didn’t seem to recognise the name.’
‘What’s her name again?’ She had a pencil poised over a small notepad.
‘Nancy. Nancy Spiller. She was having something called CBT. Or was it CTB?’
Barkley stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘Don’t you know what that is?’
Now who’s being superior? Thea thought. ‘Um … I do, if I think about it. She told me only this morning, but I’m not very good at that sort of thing,’ she said.
‘Cognitive behaviour therapy. Ring any bells?’
‘Oh yes. Silly me. Sorry.’
‘Where does this Nancy Spiller live, then?’
‘Gladwin’s got her address. She gave it to me in the first place. She’s a very nice woman.’
Caz Barkey shrugged. ‘And the other person? What’s her name?’
‘His. It’s a man. He’s called Luc Biddulph. I’m not sure, but I suspect it’s spelt with a “C”: L-U-C. The French way. Most of them have got French names. Except Lawrence.’
‘Who is he? Luc, I mean.’
‘The son of the man we’re burying tomorrow. He’s in a wheelchair, after a road accident not very long ago. Juliet pushed the chair around, apparently. I suppose he goes to Paxford for some sort of physiotherapy.’ And I do know what that is, she wanted to add.
‘And who’s Lawrence?’ She was writing quickly, noting more than mere names.
‘Another son.’ Thea was anxious to withhold as much Biddulph-related information as she could. Where she had initially been excited to discover a link between them and Juliet, she now wanted passionately to defend them from any police attention. ‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’ she said again.
‘Okay. Thanks. I’ll take that back with me and see if it helps.’
‘I don’t think it will. The killer must have been a stranger – not somebody who knew Juliet. She was such a sweet person, nobody would deliberately kill her, knowing who she was.’
‘We can’t know that.’ A shadow crossed the young face. ‘There’s no limit to what apparently normal people will do.’
Thea remembered Gladwin’s unofficial disclosure about Caz’s background. Had she been abused as a child – removed from feckless parents and consigned to a care home where the house-father was a secret paedophile? Did such things really happen? Nothing from Thea’s own personal experience had ever come close to confirming the horror stories that filled the tabloids. A succession of Cotswold murders felt almost
mundane by comparison. ‘I guess so,’ was all she said.
‘I should go and have a look at your field,’ Caz said. ‘They tell me it’s worth seeing.’
‘Oh – well, it’s not very interesting. Andrew’s digging a grave there at the moment. He doesn’t really like being watched while he’s doing that.’
‘Your husband? But isn’t he in the house with your kids?’ The notion of unsupervised children was evidently very disconcerting.
‘No, that’s Drew. It is confusing, I know. Andrew works for us.’
Barkley glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better get back, anyway. Some other time.’
‘Where do you live?’ Thea asked, in an impulsive attempt to forge a more personal link. ‘Was it difficult to find somewhere?’
It was not a wise question. ‘Why do you want to know that?’ came the instant response.
‘No reason. Just idle conversation. I got the idea you’re new to the area, and prices are so high, it can’t be easy.’
‘I’ve got more in common with Juliet Wilson than you might think.’ The tone was sour, almost bitter. ‘I’m renting a place with two others in Cirencester. Satisfied?’
‘Cirencester’s nice,’ said Thea faintly.
‘Not a lot of nightlife, though.’
‘Not like Gloucester.’
Caz Barkley gave a brief laugh. ‘Some choice! I’ll be thirty next birthday. I guess that means I’m in the right place. We’ll see how it goes, anyway.’
‘Are you all working overtime on this murder case?’
‘Sort of. Not like on the telly, though. Do you watch all those police dramas? Honestly,’ she went on without waiting for an answer, ‘they’re ludicrous sometimes. There was a French one a while ago, where this woman detective doesn’t sleep for about four days, and still goes running around a derelict industrial site by a beach, in bare feet. And she’s pregnant. Ludicrous!’
‘Why’s she got bare feet?’
‘That’s another thing – she always wore these stupid shoes with heels. So, when she had to run over the pebbles, she fell over. So she took them off.’ Caz looked down at her own sensible trainers. ‘And then she had to run about a mile, half-carrying a girl who’d been shot, chased by a man with a gun.’