by DH Smith
She was clutching her stomach, rocking back and forth, as the ambulance was called.
Chapter 51
Jack arrived home mid afternoon. He’d been oblivious to the fuss over Liz as he’d been in the yard, hosing down his wheelbarrow and tools. Zar came in yelling that Liz was being taken away in an ambulance.
He ran out. There was the ambulance, just beyond the wall, the back doors wide open. Two paramedics were carrying Liz on a stretcher across the grass. Rose was by the vehicle.
She said, ‘You were right all along, Jack.’
‘The last thing I want to be.’
‘She collapsed into her cascade,’ said Rose. ‘She didn’t want an ambulance, kept telling us she was alright, but it was obvious she wasn’t. By the time they got here, she was frothing at the mouth, vomiting and thrashing about. She fought them off. Can you believe that? They had to give her an injection to pacify her.’
Liz was being slid into the back of the ambulance. A small crowd had gathered. The day had clouded over; there was a chill wind.
‘I never believed you tried it on with her,’ said Rose, taking his hand.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Because she wouldn’t have rejected you, Jack. If that helps your ego.’
‘Not much.’
‘Miss,’ called a paramedic, ‘if you’re coming along then you’d better get on board.’
‘You know my number, Jack. Keep in touch.’
They embraced, and quickly parted. And then Rose was in the back of the vehicle. The doors were closed, and in less than a minute the ambulance was gone from the park; a dying siren signalling its route to the hospital.
Zar was crushed. ‘She was eating and drinking, had a crowd around her cascade, all asking her questions, when she dropped into the water. Out of nowhere.’
Bill was philosophical, as one might expect.
‘You never know what’s eating you up inside. Like termites.’
Jack had left soon after, though wondered how they’d manage the park, just the two of them and all the debris of the ceremony. The marquee to be packed up, tables and chairs collected. The playground run. Who was in charge now?
Several times during the afternoon, he’d tried phoning Rose, and had given up by the time DC Thomas arrived in the early evening. Jack invited him up.
‘I’ve only instant coffee,’ he said.
‘OK by me, Jack.’
He made them a mug each, and they sat in the sitting room, his kitchen being a tip.
Thomas was back in his smart working suit. A plain clothes cop.
‘Have you heard anything?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘I’ve been ringing Rose on and off, with no luck.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to inform you that Liz died about four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Oh God.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘Excuse me,’ he managed, rubbing his eyes with the back of a hand.
‘Take this,’ said Thomas, handing over a tissue.
‘Thanks.’ He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. ‘I only knew her a few days; you’d think I was her brother or something. It’s just… she touched me.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with crying, mate,’ said Thomas patting him on the back. ‘I’ve met bastards who wouldn’t weep if their daughter’s head was chopped off in front of them. Let ‘em flow.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jack sniffing.
‘You were right all along,’ said Thomas.
‘You’re the second one who’s said that to me.’
‘She was so jolly last night,’ said the detective. ‘What d’you make of that?’
Jack thought this over. ‘She’d settled what she was going to do,’ he said at last. ‘Taken the mushrooms and had no regrets.’
‘We’ve had the preliminary post mortem report on Swift. And it’s confirmed, death stalk poisoning.’
‘Two in two days,’ said Jack.
‘There’s no doubt in my mind,’ said Thomas, ‘that she killed Ian Swift. Do you agree?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then she killed herself because of guilt, fear of being caught, or whatever.’
‘Or whatever,’ echoed Jack.
‘Did she tell you she killed Swift?’
‘No,’ he said. There was no point getting himself in trouble.
‘There’s one thing missing though,’ mused Thomas. ‘Motive. Why did she kill him?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jack.
‘He must have had something on her,’ reflected the detective. ‘Something in her past he was going to reveal.’
‘I don’t know anything about her past,’ said Jack. ‘Just who she was in the last few days of her life.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘What happens now?’
‘There’ll be a post mortem to ascertain the cause of death. And we can be pretty sure what it will reveal. Then there’ll be two inquests.’
‘Might she be accused of murder?’
‘As it stands,’ said the detective, his tongue lolling in his cheek, ‘No. There’s not enough hard evidence. There’s what she said to you – but later she denied ever saying it. Up three steps, down four. There’s Zar and the mushrooms, but she more or less had an OK reason for wanting to keep them secret. Without the motive, she gets away with it.’
‘Not quite,’ said Jack. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Point taken,’ said Thomas. ‘But I’d like to tie this one up. A neat bundle. Case closed. I don’t like these half done things. I’m trying for promotion to detective sergeant…’ He stopped and waved his hands, ‘But don’t let me start on my ambitions.’
‘Will you pick up with Zar?’
‘I hope to. But not till the inquests are over. Professional etiquette. He’s staying in Liz’s house for the time being. There’s a good chance it could be permanent. They’re impressed with him. He ran the park almost single handed this afternoon. The other man… what’s his name?’
‘Bill.’
‘Useless. Zar took charge.’
‘He showed them the Tree Plan at the ceremony. Liz brought him in.’
‘I think the lad might’ve struck lucky.’ He rose. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Jack. I won’t keep you any longer. I’d be obliged though if you could come to the station as soon as you can and make a statement.’
‘I’m off tomorrow,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll come in late morning.’
And with that Thomas left him.
Jack sat for a long time, reflecting. He’d been right last night. She’d confessed to him in the rose garden. And admitted in her cottage there were death stalks in her omelette. That was the sadness. Her willingness to die. Killing herself because she’d killed Ian, and couldn’t stand losing her park.
But it was so unnecessary.
Ian would’ve been arrested today, or some time soon, for his part in the scam. Gone. Out of her life. For what? Why had she needed to kill him at all?
Did it matter? He had no paperwork to tie up.
He regretted not getting to her greenhouse. A tour of her patch. And wondered who would take it over? Presumably, they’d bring someone in. With three gone from the park, Liz, Amy and Ian; they’d have to. He’d phone Rose in a couple of days, suggest they did something or other. A meal, a movie. What would happen to her? In the other cottage with Mr Swift for the time being. Most likely they’d have to go when new staff came. Hopefully, they’d get enough notice to sort something out.
There’d be a funeral. Two in fact. But only one he’d be going to. Bring some flowers. What would Liz like? What’s in season? The park would make a floral tribute from her greenhouse. He’d wear his one and only suit.
He thought of last night in the park. Her vaccing in the rose garden in the dark. The vroom across the lawn; he hadn’t known who was doing what or where it was exactly. And found her, barely visible in the gloom doing needless work. Sweeping leaves even as they fell.
And would fall for another month or more. Piles and piles of dead leaves to crackle unde
r foot and be vacced away. And put on heaps. He’d been struck by one of the pictures in her sitting room; the red, brown and yellow leaves floating on the pond. October days. But dark skies too, that he’d wanted to share with her. The lozenge of Auriga, the Pleiades, the Square of Pegasus.
This weekend was Brighton. There might be change and change about. Take it slow. Too much had happened too quickly. Don’t walk in to be thrown out again.
Rose sat on the bed, exhausted. Too many nights on the razzle, and the hours and hours in the hospital, waiting for news of Liz. How could she die? Even though she’d been charged into intensive care, how could she die on her? Rose had always known that in spite of the fact that Liz was five years older, that she, Rose, would die first. It was her preordained fate. From childhood.
How could her sister cheat her!
Rose was fated to be the tragic heroine in the family. Instead she was the survivor. She’d wanted to be the dead sister, the one causing grief, the one everyone exclaimed ‘so young, so young’ over, as they stared at the body on the river bank with strands of algae in her long hair. Still weeping, as they sorted out her memorial and funeral with eight limousines in a cortege covered in wreaths. Now she would have to organise all that. Imagine! Rose Parker having to mastermind a funeral. She’d need to contact Mum and Dad. Give them the details. Go through Liz’s phone book.
What a task!
Not a role for the clubbing girl, the wild thing. This had been Liz’s area. Her older sister who knew all the plants and flowers, who could tell the difference between a field mushroom and a death stalk.
She loved her. She hated her. The sister who had thrown her out. Who half protected her. Who didn’t live in the cottage next door any longer. Though her things were there. Like a museum of Liz’s life. Her books, her paintings, all the little bits of arts and crafts scattered around the house. Her clothing, shoes, bedding and towels. All to be sorted out. By Rose – the organiser.
What a legacy!
At least Zar was next door. Her mate. He was acting manager in the park. He’d never handle it. Not tough enough. Bill would mess him about and whatever replacements were taken on, they’d have a field day with too-nice Zar. Except she’d be his bully boy. Yell and browbeat them into shape. Push them about. And maybe Zar would get the job permanently.
What was her chance of staying in this house? She did work in the park. They couldn’t just throw out Mr Swift. There’d have to be some notice. And if it came to that, and if Zar got the manager’s role, then she could prevail on him.
You have to think of yourself. Even at a time like this.
Especially at times like this.
She couldn’t evade the call to their parents. Go visit them. Talk about funeral options and so forth. Oh, how responsible she’d have to be! Making up lists of undertakers. Caterers. A memorial some time, somewhere.
Maybe Zar would come with her. That would confuse Mum and Dad. No. She’d have to go alone. Phone them tonight.
Something was pushing into her backside. Was there nowhere comfortable in the world? This constant itch. She pulled back the bedclothes. Nothing but the sheets. Then she lifted the corner of the mattress. There it was. Her discomfort.
Bundles and bundles of banknotes. Seven tidy bundles to be exact, each bound with an elastic band. Must be £1000 in each.
Ian had been commendably tidy.
Rose knew at once what it was. The proceeds of Women Fly Women. Amy’s daily deliveries and who knew who else’s? Taken in by Ian and hidden under his mattress for the time being. Nobody knew of it. They were all getting arrested, from the bottom to the very top. This was buried treasure. The pirate captain was dead, the crew in clink. Finders keepers. Plenty to pay for a funeral. Though Liz had enough, and to spare, in her bank account.
Rose had a thought.
It was she who’d brought Man Mountain to the park. The great wrecking ball who’d toppled over the cascade and knocked over Jack’s telescope. It was she who’d led him to the marquee. To get him out of her way, so she could get some sleep.
She had a debt to pay. Not that such things usually bothered her, but then pirate’s loot didn’t often come her way. She flicked the notes. Smelt them. Filthy lucre. Do something useful with it.
In a couple of days, she’d turn up at Jack’s door. See his face when she handed over the hefty cardboard box.
‘Special delivery for Jack of All Trades!’
Thank you!
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Books by DH Smith
DH Smith is the name I use for my Jack of All Trades series. The books are all standalone novels and can be read in any order.
Out Now:
Jack of All Trades
Jack of Spades
Jack o’Lantern
Jack By The Hedge
Coming Soon:
Jack in the Box
Jack on the Tower
Jack Be Nimble
Books by Derek Smith
All my books, other than the Jack of All Trades series, are written under the name Derek Smith.
Mystery/Crime
Murder at Any Price
Fantasy
Hell’s Chimney
The Prince’s Shadow
Elektra
Other
Strikers of Hanbury Street (short stories)
Catching Up (poetry)
Young Adult Novels
Hard Cash
Half a Bike
Fast Food
Frances Fairweather Demon Striker!
Children’s Novels
The Good Wolf
Feather Brains
Baker’s Boy
For Younger Children
The Magical World of Lucy-Anne
Lucy-Anne’s Changing Ways
Jack’s Bus
About the Author
I live in Forest Gate in the East End of London. In my working life, I have been a plastics chemist, a gardener and a stage manager before becoming a professional writer. I began with plays, working with several theatre companies, and had a few plays on radio and TV, as well as on the stage. In the early 80s I became involved in running a co-operative bookshop and vegetarian café in Stratford, learning to cook, and having my first go at writing a novel. The first was a mess, and, after too many rewrites, binned. The transition from drama to novels took me a couple of years to get to grips with. My first success was a young adult novel, Hard Cash, published by Faber. Buoyed up by this, I stuck with children’s work, did school visits, and made a hand to mouth living as a full time author, topped up with some evening class work in creative writing at City University and the Mary Ward Centre in Holborn. A few adult fiction titles appeared from time to time, between the children’s list, and I have since been working more in that direction with my Jack of All Trades series.
My full name is Derek Howard Smith. I write as DH Smith for my Jack of All Trades series; all other books appear under Derek Smith. Earlham Books is my own imprint.
www.dereksmithwriter.com
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